Tread Softly
by r4ven3
Summary: Set almost 2 years after the end of Series 10. Lots of angst, but I promise the mood will lift. My aim in writing this is to repair the mess the writers/producers left us in at series end.
1. Chapter 1

He was relieved to see that their bench by the river was vacant, and considered this to be good sign, of what he had little idea, but it stirred an optimism in him that he had not felt in a very long time. 20 months, 4 days and 21 hours to be exact. With that he quickly sat down at one end of what he still thought of as Our Bench, hands thrust deeply into the pockets of his coat, legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankles, shoulders hunched against the cold, and let his mind wander where it will while his eyes settled on the light which danced across the ripples on the surface of the river. He didn't _really_ expect her to join him, although inside his head he had concocted that scenario so many times he was sure that it _could_ happen – perhaps in an alternate universe, perhaps some time in the future – long after he is gone.

As of this moment it had been 20 months, 4 days and 21 hours since she had died in his arms. For 20 months, 4 days and 21 hours he had managed little more than to go through the motions of being Harry Pearce, head of MI-5, solver of problems of national importance, keeper of secrets, possessor of the mind of a king, and the heart of a lion. In truth, he knew that his heart had gone to the grave with Ruth, the same heart that had only just come alive with her touch, her smile just for him, and her promise of a life after MI-5. Each night as he lay alone in his cavernous bed, willing sleep or death to take him, he felt what was left of his heart breaking just that little bit more. Most nights, the nights when he was sober enough to remember climbing the stairs to bed, he cried into his pillow like a child, the pillow next to his own, the pillow on which Ruth's head had never had the chance to rest. He missed her more than he'd thought possible, and the pain didn't ease as time passed. If anything, like an approaching thunderstorm, it became heavier and darker with each day. He had been living his life waiting for the pain to go away, because once his pain eased he could again think about living. Even a fool knew that wouldn't happen any time soon, if ever.

Harry was not sure how much more of this existence of his he could tolerate. It was little more than muscle memory that got him through each day. He had lost count of the bottles of whiskey he had consumed in that time, although he was sure his liver could tell him were a common language to be found to suit them both. _ That's four glasses over your limit,_ says his liver. _Shutup,_ replies Harry. _Who's in charge here?_ His team had little idea how profoundly Ruth's death had affected him, and how it still affected him, draining away what little life force he had left once her body had been airlifted from that windy cliff-top, the place where Ruth had died, and Harry's heart had begun to disintegrate, cell by cell, molecule by molecule, atom by atom. For that first 3 months after he lost her forever, all of Dimitri, Erin and Calum, and especially the Home Secretary were careful, even solicitous around him, so much so that he was relieved when Erin and Dimitri suddenly married one weekend, taking everyone by surprise as well as drawing the attention away from him.

"We saw what happened with you and Ruth," Dimitri had said somewhat tactlessly, "so we figured we'd fast-track the nuptials, just in case."

Harry had smiled from his cheeks down, clenching his fists by his sides in case his right fist suddenly and accidentally caught Dimitri's left cheekbone. In contrast, he had kissed Erin's cheek while he murmured his congratulations.

"It should have been you and Ruth doing this," Erin had whispered, to which Harry had nodded. He was not sure he could have answered her, even had he had the words. Their obvious happiness overwhelmed him with sadness and regret, guilt and pain, as unshed tears welled at the back of his throat. Twice Ruth had sacrificed herself to protect him, and twice she had left him for good; the second time had been final. It bloody served him right.

Harry felt rather than saw someone sit down beside him, at the other end of the bench. He swallowed his outrage that someone – a stranger – had entered this sacred space, the place he and Ruth had shared. The woman coughed, then coughed some more, like she had something caught in her throat. The words of William Butler Yeats suddenly entered his head:

_But I, being poor, have only my dreams;_

_I have spread my dreams under your feet;_

_Tread softly for you tread on my dreams._

This bench was Harry's private temple to Ruth. He wished he could quote the words of Yeats to all who ventured here.

The stranger then surprised him by speaking.

"Harry Pearce, I presume." Her voice was low and husky, the voice of a mature woman, her accent different from his own.

Harry glanced at her, taking in her short, spiky dark hair, her black trousers and boots, and her red coat. She looked like a Cossack. Bloody Russians! A black leather bag was slung over one shoulder; big enough for a laptop...or a gun, but too small for an automatic weapon. Once a spook, always a spook. She was looking right at him, in much the same way Ruth had when she required a straight answer from him. He silently regretted all the times he had avoided giving her a straight answer. Being a spook was a hard habit to break.

"You fit the description given me," the woman continued, "and you're sitting on the right bench."

Despite his desire to tell the woman to bugger off and leave him to his pondering, Harry's interest had been piqued by her comment about the bench. So few people knew about this bench. Ruth did, of course, but she was beyond telling anyone. Malcolm had also, but he'd resigned from MI-5 years ago. Harry still missed Malcolm. The Home Secretary possibly did also, but Harry doubted that this small piece of information, so precious to he and Ruth, would remain a significant part of the Home Secretary's conscious memories, especially after 20 months, 4 days and 21 hours. Harry stared back at the woman, noting that she was around his own age, but had looked after herself better than he had managed for himself.

"I come with some information for you. I can guarantee you'll want to hear this."

God, not another bloody spook! It was her accent that had irritated him. Antipodean. Possibly Australian or New Zealand. Too flat to be South African. At least she wasn't Russian, so that was a relief!

"So thrill me," Harry replied in his best sarcastic tone. "I doubt there's anything you can tell me that I don't already know." This had better be good, and if she ended up shooting him, here on this bench, the bench on which he and Ruth had sat so many times over the years, then well and good. So long as she aimed for his brain and not his stomach. If she aimed for his heart she'd miss it because it was no longer there.

They stared at one another for a few more seconds before the woman again spoke. She was cool alright. Harry began to forgive her her accent.

"My name is Justine Granger," she said, handing Harry a business card, which he took but didn't look at. "I'm a private investigator. Most of my work is in getting people in touch with those they've been separated from...relinquishing mothers, children adopted at birth, that sort of thing."

"I wasn't adopted," Harry interrupted. The woman continued as though he'd not spoken.

"Someone has sent me to find you, to speak to you. She said you'd be – er – blunt. Maybe even rude." She smiled kindly at him before continuing. "This is someone you believed to be dead. She – has instructed me to give you this." The woman began to scrabble in her bag in search of something.

Harry stopped breathing, as time stood still. _This is someone you believed to be dead. _He couldn't see, and all he could hear was the thumping of his almost-dead heart against his ribs.

Ruth. _Please let it be Ruth._


	2. Chapter 2

Justine Granger lifted a large manilla envelope from her bag and handed it to Harry.

"This is from Ruth Evershed," she said quietly, with prayer-like gravitas. "She wants you to go through everything in here before you contact me again. Take it home with you and read it. Have the photos analysed – Ruth said you'll want to do that, to prove they're authentic. When you're happy they're genuine, then you have my card. Phone me so we can sort out what to do next. If that's what you want to happen."

_If that's what I want? Is she mad? _ This is what he'd wanted for 20 months, 4 days and 21 hours. For once Harry was struck speechless. He felt tears well in his eyes, and as a tear rolled down each cheek, Justine continued quietly and reverently, as though not wanting to shatter the moment for Harry.

"She's alive, Harry, and she's in England. But she wants to be careful all the same. Just in case."

"You've seen her?" was all Harry managed to say as he held the envelope in his hands, too afraid to look inside.

"Yes, I've seen her. There are photographs in there which were taken in the last few days. I took them myself, with this camera." She lifted a Minolta from her bag to show him. One camera looked the same as another to Harry.

"She's in London?"

"No. She's down south, on the coast."

"Is she – is she – well?"

"Yes, she's fine. Now, take that envelope home and look through the contents. There's a DVD in there also. Get back to me once you've examined it all."

And then she was gone. Harry watched her back fade into the distance as she walked quickly away from him along the Thames embankment.

"But I was with her when she died," he whispered. "I kissed her lips and they were cold. How could I not have known?"

In a cottage on the outskirts of a small coastal village in Devon a woman with brown hair and large, but sad blue eyes paced from one room to another, then back again, checking her mobile phone for the umpteenth time. Ruth Evershed was very much alive, and all her thoughts were of Harry Pearce, the man she had loved wholeheartedly and unreservedly for the past ten years of her life. Her fears overrode any anticipation she had about meeting him again after almost 2 years. What if he'd met someone else? What if he were already married again? What if he were so angry at her for dying and then deceiving him that he refused to speak to her? What if he sends out some of his spooks to kill her? _Get a grip, Evershed!_

"Come on, Justine, ring me," she called out, her eyes on her phone.

With that the phone rang, and Ruth grabbed it like it was her lifeline...which in a way it was.

"Hello? Justine?"

"Contact made. Harry Pearce has the envelope. The rest is up to him. At least he didn't walk off before I had a chance to explain myself."

"How did he seem?" Ruth pleaded, "Was he well? How did he react when he heard I was alive?" Everything in her life swung on this particular balance.

"He seemed..." Justine faltered, "sad, like a man in mourning, I'd say. I got the impression he didn't want me sitting there."

Ruth mentally hugged herself. Our Bench, he was sitting on Our Bench, and he wanted Ruth to sit there, or no-one at all.

"When I told him it was you who was seeking him," Justine continued, "I thought he was going to pass out. He shed some tears, Ruth."

"He cried?"

"I said he shed tears, but he maintained his composure. He seemed shocked, but pleased. I've been reading people for 40 years, and if I read him correctly he'll be going through that envelope as we speak. And I'm sure he'll want to know where you are."

"Malcolm? It's Harry. I have some photos for you to examine if you could. Can I bring them to yours?"

Harry knew he was risking his job by seeing Malcolm, but he no longer cared. In less than a year he'd be turning 60, and he no longer wished to spend another day of his life in fighting the battles which seemed to never end. With each new terrorist cell they discovered another five popped up elsewhere. With each country Britain befriended another two closed their doors to negotiation. Harry had begun to think of it as Britain's permanently revolving door; friends in one door, enemies out the other. All that ever changed were the names and faces on the passports. And he was tired. He'd been tired for 20 months, 5 days and 3 hours.

There were at least 20 photographs of Ruth, all taken in the past week. Some had her holding a current newspaper, while a couple of others were taken in front of a small cinema showing a recent movie. All could have been photo-shopped, but he knew they were not. He'd sat gazing at these photos for at least an hour. He drank in these images of her. His beautiful, wise, clever Ruth was alive. He had not lost her She was living and breathing and living in England. She wanted to see him. She had written him a letter and spoken directly to him on a DVD. He'd first watched the DVD. She'd spoken shyly to the camera, mostly apologising for putting him through hell. By the time he was ready to read her letter it was 10pm and he hadn't even had a drink. He made himself a sweet tea – lots of sugar and milk – and then settled down on the couch to read her letter.

His hands shook as he unfolded the letter. He drew in a deep breath as he began to read.

_Dearest Harry..._

_I'm so sorry that you had to live through my death. Had I known what was about to happen I would have moved Heaven and Earth for us to have been anywhere else that day. I would have faked a stroke, a heart attack, tuberculosis, anything at all to have prevented you and me being at that cliff top. _

_You must believe me when I say that I had no idea of what was about to happen, and nor did Erin or Dimitri or Calum. You must not blame them. Even Sasha Gavrik was a pawn in a game that went beyond his own parents, his own country. I'll tell you the rest when I see you. I am hoping that you'll want to see me. I long for the touch of your hand. I long to kiss you. It's been such long time._

_Darling Harry, there is not a day or an hour or a moment in the past 20 months when I have not been consumed with thoughts of you. I will not sleep well until I look directly into your beautiful eyes for the love I long to see there. _

_Please forgive me for leaving you when I did, as I did. Believe me when I say I had no say in it. Had I had my way we'd be living in that little house in Sussex and we'd be gazing into one another's eyes over a glass of pinot noir before climbing upstairs to bed. _

_I am living in Devon. Justine has a holiday house here, and she is allowing me to live here for as long as I need. Please come to me. I long for you._

_Your Ruth x_

It all made sense to him now. She must have been given the same drug that Ros had been given the first time she had `died'. TTX mimicked death. No-one had noticed, not even him. He read the letter again. And again.

Then he wrote a list of things to do:

Visit Malcolm

See Home Secretary to resign

Collect my things from Thames House

Ring Justine

Visit Ruth

Be happy


	3. Chapter 3

Malcolm squinted at the magnified version of Ruth in his computer screen. To Harry it looked fine, but he was not in any way technological, and besides, he _wanted_ the photos to be authentic, so his bias overrode his judgement.

"Looks fine to me," Malcolm murmured. "No sign of shadows where there shouldn't be. It's at the edges here, between her hair and the background," he said, pointing at the screen, "that you can detect a fake. This one's good, and so are the rest of them."

Harry breathed out audibly and smiled his thanks.

"Your lady's alive and well, and I'd say at a guess that she's – oh – not so far from Lyme Regis. Perhaps a little south-west from there."

"I knew you were good, Malcolm, but how can you tell?"

"That cinema showing _War Horse_. It hasn't changed in the 40 years since my parents took me there on holidays when I was a boy. I loved Devon."

"Malcolm, would you like to come and have a meal with Ruth and me when we're settled? I know she'd love to see you." In reality, Harry had no idea whether this was true. For all he knew, he and Ruth may have split up within 24 hours of their reunion. The only sure thing about he and Ruth was their sheer unpredictability.

Malcolm seemed pleased to be asked. "I'd really like that," he replied, "and I promise to not embarrass her with any personal observations."

"If in doubt, quote Milton," Harry quipped.

So Malcolm did.

"_Grace was in all her steps,_

_heaven in her eye,_

_in every gesture dignity and love._

That's from _Paradise Lost_," Malcolm added quietly.

"That sounds like my Ruth."

"It certainly does, Harry."

Ruth was experiencing level of anxiety not known to her since before the Libya riots which led to the death of Gaddafi, and ultimately her freedom to do or be whoever and wherever she wanted. She was afraid Harry may have backed out, leaving her to lick her own wounds, just as he must have had to tend to his own these last 20 months. By her estimation, The Drop – as she now referred to Justine's meeting with Harry at Our Bench – had taken place well over 24 hours previously, and still she had not heard a thing, either from Justine or from Harry. Either would do. Ruth took charge of herself. Tucking her phone into the pocket of her purple parka, she took a walk along the cliff top. The sun kissed her face, while the wind ravaged her hair, whipping her cheeks with its fury. The clean air helped clear her mind of doubts and fears. On her way back to the cottage she felt a quickening in her chest, like something had changed, and this felt to her like something good was about to happen.

"So what will you do with your time, Harry?"

"None of your bloody business, William. I can call you William, now, can't I?"

"It's not like you to bother about protocol, Harry."

"And it's not like you to concern yourself about another man's feelings, William."

"We must be new age men, then Harry, talking about feelings and such."

"At least I still have my feelings, William."

With that, Harry left the Home Secretary's office for Thames House. His last port of call before he rang Justine Granger.

At 10 pm, 20 months, 6 days, and 7 hours after the woman he loved had left him for the last time, Harry decided he was not prepared to wait any longer to see her. Justine had provided him with Ruth's phone number and address, along with directions how to get there. All it would take was a couple of hours in the car and he'd be there. He packed an overnight bag, and threw it on the back seat of his car. Then, rather than ring her, he sent Ruth a text, deliberately vague.

_Arriving some time soon._

_H xx_

_Not finished yet...

At least 2 more chapters methinks


	4. Chapter 4

Once on the M3 Harry felt able to relax a little.

He'd been a man of action all his life, and wallowing in grief like a seabird caught in an oil slick did not suit him; waiting did not suit him; losing Ruth had not suited him; working at 5 without her by his side _definitely_ did not suit him. He had never felt more alive than when he and Ruth had worked in tandem. They were a team, Ruth and he, and he'd felt naked without her by his side these past 20 months (plus 6 days and 8 hours, not that he was counting). But he was now taking definitive action, and it felt good. The adrenalin was still high, but not so high that he'd be likely to take unnecessary risks. He couldn't afford to take risks now he was so close to seeing her again. He felt like he was on the last leg of a very long and arduous journey.

To take his mind off the traffic and the long road which stretched ahead, he allowed his mind to wander back to the time when they'd been reunited after she'd left him that first time. It had hardly been the happy and glorious coming together he had hoped for and imagined, despite the heightened emotion which had accompanied their parting on the wharf. Had he been able to imagine a worse-case-scenario for their first meeting after the Cotterdam fiasco, then the scene in that disused warehouse with the mad Russian would have been it. He'd been tied up and bound to a chair. When he'd refused to divulge the whereabouts of the uranium, Ruth – his Ruth – had been brought in to sit facing him while an image on a screen showed her Cypriot partner, George, and his son Nico, happily kicking a football around the back yard of a safe house. It had been their first sighting of one another in almost 3 years, and he had celebrated it by sentencing her common-law husband to death. It had not been his finest hour, but he could never have divulged that information without risking the lives of so many others. So George was shot and killed while he and Ruth looked on. Each scream, each cry of `_No'_ she uttered was like another nail in the coffin of their personal relationship. No, that had not been a happy or even mildly pleasant reunion at all, but were he to live through it again he would change nothing. The harder choices had to be made, and that's what he'd been paid to do. He was not about to regret what happened that day, but he wished that their meeting again after almost 3 years had been in happier circumstances.

This time he planned for their meeting to be all that it could be, all that it should .

He smiled to himself, anticipating Ruth's eyes, her hair, her mouth, her arms, her breasts, the fresh smell of her...Harry hoped he would be up to the task. To be honest he had little idea. He'd been celibate for years now, all the while waiting for Ruth. She was still in her prime, and he was 40 years past his. A man reached his sexual prime at 18, while a woman peaked sexually at 40. Harry considered this to be yet even further proof that God did not exist, or if he did, by some quirk in the universal scheme of things or even the space-time continuum, God was no doubt Russian and a sadist!

As he headed on to the A303 he began to experience a rising anxiety about seeing Ruth again. His dreams were about to become reality, and he had little idea of what that would mean in real terms. _But I'm Harry Pearce, and until 5 hours ago I was the head of MI-5_ was a mantra which did nothing to quell his fears. All the Russians and the Turks and the Serbs, the Iranians and the Libyans and the whole of the CIA were no match for Ruth Evershed. He loved her with everything he had, but he had to admit that she also scared him a little. No doubt she was changed by her experiences. Then again, so was he. There's nothing like deep grief to dredge out all the angst and hurt and rage a person has buried inside them, and Harry had uncovered a lot of angst and hurt and rage these past 20 months.

No, he and Ruth deserved a new beginning – a fresh start, a clean slate.

Harry needed a distraction, so he turned on the radio, only to hear the Lancastrian lilt of Professor Brian Cox discussing the origins of the universe. _Bloody intellectuals. Bloody BBC4_. He pressed another button to get Classic FM. _Ah, that's better_...Maria Callas singing _Casta Diva _from `_Norma'_, by Bellini. The purity of her voice lifted his energy and his flagging spirits. _Music hath charms to soothe the savage beast. _Or was it breast? He could never remember. Malcolm would know, as would his Ruth.

By the time Harry found where Ruth lived it was well past midnight, and the cottage was in darkness. Rather than surprise her, he realised he could very well scare her to death by arriving at this hour. Perhaps he hadn't thought this through very well. He still had no idea of where she'd been and what atrocities she may have witnessed or even experienced herself in the months she'd been away. For the past 30 hours he had been living on adrenalin and hope, and now that he had reached his destination he felt his courage begin to wane. He was tired, and he just wanted to hold her. Was that such a bad thing? Having waited for over 20 months for this meeting, he simply got out of his car and walked up the path to her front door. _Here I am,_ he thought to himself, _if you want me, I'm all yours. _

He considered for a moment the possibility of breaking in, and surprising her - his one last act as a spook, if you like but he quickly vetoed that. Too forward, and borderline stalkerish to boot. He lifted his hand to knock on the door, when a light was switched on inside the cottage, and the door opened.

He held his breath as for the first time in 20 months, 6 days and a little over 9 hours, his eyes met Ruth's.

Still not finished...hang in there! The more I write, the more there is to come...


	5. Chapter 5

_For reasons I can't explain, I have decided to relate this story almost totally from Harry's POV. I like the idea that a man who is so at ease in his working environment can be so inept and inarticulate, even incompetent in his personal life. Well, to be honest, this story is writing itself, which is what normally happens. I hope you like it, and enjoy reading it as much as I am enjoying writing it. (And I have little idea of where it's going after this chapter...)_

Ruth had been curled up on the couch in the dark, waiting for him ever since receiving his text message. She'd thought about calling him, but she hadn't wanted to disturb the charged atmosphere of the last few days by being too eager, too desperate. Her anticipation of his arrival had her almost changing her mind about this whole thing. What if he no longer loved her? What if he took one look at her and walked right out again? Her pink bunny pyjamas were not her most alluring outfit, although they were her warmest.

_Oh, Evershed, ye of little faith!_

She had found it easy to declare her love for Harry in the letter she had written. Words on the page had always been the way in which Ruth made her connections with the world around her. It was the spoken word between she and Harry that stymied her natural flow of words every time. In her head she had herself saying one thing, while to his face and aloud a whole different conversation took place. As much as she was certain she loved him, Harry confused her. He was commanding in the workplace, and so she expected him to be that way in their relationship. It always surprised her that he'd stumbled over words and misunderstood her actions and expressions, more often than not totally misinterpreting what had been so obvious to her and everyone else. The frustration which resulted had been palpable to them both.

Now here he was, on her front doorstep. She'd heard his footsteps and reached the door as he was about to knock. He looked tired and drained, and sad, and altogether wonderful. She could barely take her eyes from his face, that beautiful face she loved, with all its age lines and flaws, and again that mouth that had always haunted her with its promise of things to come. Surely a man to whom God had given such a mouth _must_ be able to use it. _And_ a tongue to match, one would hope. His hazel eyes held her blue ones. Not knowing what else to do, and not wanting to do the wrong thing, she stood aside to allow him inside.

Harry simply stared at her, his mouth open a little as his eyes drank in every last drop of her. This woman – his Ruth – the best, brightest and most thorough intelligence analyst in 21st century Britain, was dressed in fluffy pink pyjamas over which she wore a wine-coloured dressing gown, and had he not known otherwise he could have taken her for fourteen, rather than a woman in her forties. Despite the cold and it being well past midnight her feet were bare. He wanted to gather her in his arms and hold her close to him until the sun came up. Instead, he brushed past her, stepping into the hallway of the cottage. Ruth closed the door behind him and stood facing him. Harry again noticed her feet, bare on the polished floorboards.

"Shouldn't you have something on your feet? People have died from less." he said, quite unnecessarily.

"Bloody hell, Harry, is that all you can say?"

A smile lit Harry's sad face - sad because of all the months and years they had wasted, sad because he had never told her he loved her, sad because he never knew when to speak and when to keep his mouth shut, sad because he had spoiled the moment with yet another inane comment. He closed the distance between them in one stride, his eyes holding hers, and wrapped his arms around her in the bear hug to end all bear hugs, a long sigh escaping from the depths of his chest. He held her hard against his body, his face buried in her hair. Ruth's head nestled against his chest. She had slipped her arms under his jacket, snaking them around his waist to his back, where her fingers circled as they massaged his back, tired and sore from sitting in his car for 2 hours.

Two hearts beat wildly in a primal rhythm, two people who had longed to be home were now home.

Harry had little idea how long they stood like this. It felt like an hour or more, but was more likely to have been only minutes. He had only just noticed how soft her breasts felt against his chest, when Ruth squirmed a little as she spoke.

"Harry", she mumbled into his chest, "I can't breathe."

He laughed gently and pulled back slightly so that they could each look into the eyes of the other.

"I just needed to make sure you're real," he murmured. "Only two days ago I was still grieving your death."

Then, without thinking too much about it, Harry leaned down to her and touched his lips with her own. It was little more than a gentle caress of skin on skin, but soon he felt her mouth move in response, so with a daring he'd normally reserve for the Grid, he put one hand in her hair, the other firmly on her back and leaned into the kiss. This was not some late-night snog after a boozy party, and this woman was not the bored young trophy wife of a politician. This was Ruth, and as such this was different territory altogether. It would never do to grab her breast with one hand while he slipped a knee between her legs, not that he was thinking along those lines of course. So he took his time, but found his self-control wavering as his body began to respond in other ways. This was not the time to go all cave man on her. There was a conversation they needed to have, and this was as good a time as any.

Reluctantly he drew away from the kiss, noticing the disappointment in her eyes.

"We need to talk," he said with uncharacteristic brevity.

Ruth nodded, took his hand in her own, and led him into the sitting room where a gas fire emitted a low glow. They sat on the couch side-by-side, still holding hands. Harry had not felt this much contentment in a long time, perhaps ever. He felt 16 again, but being 59 and feeling 16 was much, much better than being 16 and full of raging hormones which had led him to acting foolishly more often than not, especially with girls. He suddenly remembered an Essex girl joke from his late teens:

_How does an Essex girl turn the light out after sex? _

_She shuts the door of the Cortina._

Crass and cruel, but it made him smile at that moment. The safety, warmth and love he felt as he sat on this couch, in this cottage in the company of the woman he had loved for so long almost overwhelmed him. For the second time in a week, Harry Pearce was struck speechless.

"Do you want anything first?" Ruth asked. "Coffee, tea, whiskey, wine?"

"Wine would be nice," he replied, opening his hand to allow her fingers leave his. "I notice you didn't say coffee, tea or me."

"The answer to that goes without saying, Harry," she called over her shoulder from the kitchen

So, with a chilled bottle of chardonnay on the table next to the couch, Ruth and Harry settled down beside one another to have the conversation that had been so long in coming. With no phones ringing, no national emergencies pending, no terrorist cells to quash, no more funerals to attend, no reports due yesterday, no Home Secretary wanting him to perform miracles on a tight budget...It was just about perfect, really.

_Much more to come!_


	6. Chapter 6

_**Please forgive me if there are massive holes in my explanation of the European political & trade environment. European politics & trade is not something I know anything about (as in who are Britain's trade partners, and in what) & I allowed myself some liberties with the details because `Spooks' is a story set in a kind of hyper-reality. This is a much longer chapter, as I had to cover a lot of territory. I hope it still manages to entertain.**_

They'd been sitting in silence for several minutes, their eyes drawn to the glow from the heater, as they waited for a beginning point to present itself. On the couch between them Harry's right hand was entwined with her left, and he rhythmically rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand, a reassuring gesture to remind himself of how close he had come to losing her.

Paradise Regained. Harry silently thanked Malcolm for having a John Milton obsession.

He felt Ruth's eyes on him as he sipped his wine.

"What?" he asked her, gazing at her over the rim of his glass.

Ruth then giggled into her glass of wine, now three-quarters empty. She couldn't be tipsy – they were only on their second glass.

"I'm so happy I can't even think straight," she said, her smile the widest her face could contain.

So this was his moment, his cue.

"I have two things to tell you," he began, "One is that I love you, and the other is that as of eight hours ago I am unemployed – and enjoying it immensely thus far. The service and I are no longer on civil terms, which is a state of my life and my being of which I'm sure you'll approve. I am free, I am unencumbered, and I am yours."

"That's quite some speech, Harry. What was that first point again? I missed it. I was admiring your mouth, which I have to say lives up to its promise."

"Perhaps you're drunk, Ruth," but he leaned in to kiss her anyway, lingering just long enough to flick her tongue with his own before pulling away.

"Just drunk on love, Harry, and yes, I think your tongue will do just fine, thanks for asking."

They gazed at one another, feeling terribly silly and adolescent. Ruth smiled at him, then wrinkled her nose like a rabbit, and he couldn't stop grinning back at her.

"I told you I love you and you missed it." Harry rolled his eyes, but his smile remained. He had never before known happiness such as this.

"Oh, I know you love me. No question about that. I just need to hear you say it. Say it again."

"Not until you apologise for playing dead these past months." No sooner were the words out than he regretted them. This was one of the sore points between them – words spoken without proper thought or consideration. "Sorry. Sorry. _Sorry_. That was stupid," he added. "I know you couldn't help it. I know how hard it must have been for you."

"Do you know what was the hardest thing? Being unable to see you or speak to you, and knowing you believed me to be dead, and yet not being able to do anything about it. Did you know they taunted me about that? I was being kept a virtual prisoner in another country in order to control you. I was useless to them dead, but alive I had a modicum of power. You were also useless to them dead, and you were also useless to them had you left MI-5. Or so they thought. And it almost worked. But being dead to you was the hardest of all." Ruth took a small sip of her wine, and then added, almost as an afterthought, "Because I knew how my death would affect you. I knew you'd be devastated. You're more sensitive than you know, Harry."

He slipped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer to him, perhaps to ensure she'd never again leave his side.

For the next two and a half hours Ruth talked and Harry listened. Her captors had been a combination of Algerian and Libyan agents, who relied upon double agent, Sasha Gavrik for their information out of the UK. Their aim was to ensure an oil trade with the UK, but to increase it exponentially. Harry, with the encouragement of the Home Secretary, had supported their recommendations not knowing Ruth was a bargaining chip. Once Libya's Colonel Gaddafi was killed the whole messy concoction of spies and counterspies, double agents and increase in trade fell apart, leaving Ruth with a large bank balance, 4 passports, and the world as her playground.

"Was it bad? Your exile, I mean." Harry needed to know the answer before he could move on. "Did they treat you badly?"

"You're asking was I raped – sexually assaulted." Ruth replied.

"You don't have to tell me anything, Ruth. You owe me no explanation. I failed to protect you, and as a result, this happened." Harry looked genuinely miserable as he leaned his head back against the back of the couch.

"I wasn't, and no Harry, everything that happened to me was not your fault any more than it was mine. Call it bad luck, call it a cosmic payback, but I was working with you, and we had a personal relationship which was advantageous to these people. You know how it works. Use whatever you can, no matter what the cost, to get your target to give you what you want. Spy's law."

"Thank you for that, Ruth. I'm not sure I deserve you."

"Of course you deserve me, Harry, otherwise there's no way you'd be here with me."

Harry lifted his head to look at her, and saw the gentle warmth in her eyes.

"I was free to come and go as I pleased," Ruth continued gently, "so long as I never left France - which I couldn't anyway, since they held all my passports - and so long as I checked in each evening at 10, they were quite good to me. Besides, I was chaperoned everywhere I went, but I got used to that, although she was _infinitely_ scarier than the men. She ate razor blades and men's balls on toast for breakfast, you know the type." He did. "Mostly I was scared because I knew they'd not simply let me go free once I was no longer of use to them. They were continually rude about you, though," she added with a sparkle of laughter in her voice.

"Indubitably." And after a small while, "Were you being held in Paris?"

"Fortunately, no," she replied with a small smile. "I have Paris saved to share with someone special."

There was no clock in the room, so they heard no ticking, but the rise and fall of their breathing accompanied a certain adjustment they were each having to make with each disclosure.

"Harry - " Ruth murmured.

"Mmm?"

"What if they _had_ ill-treated me, like bruises and broken bones and such, or sent you a feed of me being tortured – I know that was on the cards had you not cooperated with them. I was only safe while you were doing what they wanted. What would you have done?"

Harry turned his head and looked at her. He was wearing his serious face.

"Sweetheart, had they done that, I would have sent every available resource out there to hunt down every last one of them, badly hurt them, their mothers and their grandmothers, _and_ their great-grandmothers if they had them. Then after being hospitalised for a week due to the shock of discovering you were alive, I'd have been on the next available flight to pick you up and bring you home. Then I'd have kissed you all over, after which I'd have had to make love to you over and over until we were both raw. Then I'd no doubt have married you."

"You're expressing your inner troglodyte, Harry. Somewhat Neanderthal, I'd say, especially that bit about hurting the mothers and grandmothers. The great-grandmothers not so much." She smiled mischievously as she spoke. "Pity about that. Being married might have been nice," she added quietly.

The hint was not lost on him. There'd be time for such plans later.

"The trade with Libya happened without these goons, you know." Harry hadn't known whether to tell her that her exile had largely been in vain, but it was truth time, and he felt that without the truth as a basis, their relationship may suffer some time in the future, just as it had in the past. "We had intel that there was an uprising imminent in Libya and that any arrangement we had with them would only be in place for a few months at most, so we should simply go along with it. We let them think they had us over a barrel, but in fact it was the other way round. Such is the nature of international trade and politics."

Ruth nodded in reply. She knew the past could no longer be changed, but it need not cripple her all the same. Regrets seemed pointless.

After Colonel Gaddafi's death, rather than risk returning to England, Ruth travelled to South-East Asia, taking in Vietnam, Cambodia, Thailand, Japan and then lastly Australia.

"That's where I came across Justine. She was visiting her brother and sister-in-law. They own an antiquarian bookshop down this lovely little cobbled lane in Melbourne. It's a tiny piece of colonial Australia right in the middle of a modern city, and I suppose it reminded me of home. I'd visit the shop every day just to browse, and she'd help me find the books I wanted. She moved back to the UK before me to check out `the lay of the land.' Her words, not mine."

"I might suggest to Dimitri that he recruit her," Harry said. "She's a natural. Pity about that accent, though."

"I like her. She gave me hope and helped keep my spirits up whenever I felt like running away again. And besides, she planned the whole let's-stalk-Harry scenario. She was good, don't you think?"

"If not a little too cloak and dagger. She should have been around in the sixties. She'd have fit right in."

"But Harry, it worked. Look where we are now." Ruth reached up to kiss him, just a quick peck.

Harry began to pout. As much as she loved his pout, Ruth also knew it meant he was grumpy about something, or at least he was thinking a little too hard.

"I know you were – somehow – injected with TTX around the same time Sasha stabbed you. That stuff paralysed you and slowed your metabolism – heart rate, respiration, body temperature – to mimic death." Harry was still faced with a wall of grief when thoughts of that time surfaced, chiefly due to his memory of the dark days which followed.

"Yes. They kept me that way for a few days. Sasha was always going to stab me and not you. That was the plan. They needed me away from you, and they needed you to stay with MI-5. Really, the wound from the stabbing was nothing. It was never meant to kill me."

"That's what Erin said at the time. I couldn't believe that you had died. It seemed impossible."

"I think I remember Erin saying I wasn't about to die," Ruth murmured.

Harry turned to face her. "Do you remember anything else? Do you remember what we talked about? The cottage in Sussex?"

"Of course I do. How could I not?"

The truth was that Ruth could remember very little about what had transpired after sharing her plans for the cottage with Harry. She could remember taking hold of his hand, suggesting he leave the service and live with her. She remembered him smiling and nodding in reply. Everything after that was a memory played in fast forward, where the details seemed to run into one another, although one image had stayed with her – that of an anguished Sasha Gavrik quite deliberately lunging at _her_ with the sliver of glass, despite voicing threats to kill Harry.

With that, Harry was satisfied for the time being. There'd be further opportunities for them to discuss the details. His head swam with images of Ruth being tortured,even though it was clear she hadn't suffered in that way other than being separated from him. The truth for him would always be that he carried a burden of guilt for not being able to protect her, regardless of what she had assured him to the contrary.

Harry sank back against the cushions and drew Ruth against him. She grabbed a blanket which had been folded at one end of the couch, and drew it over them both. And so, they settled comfortably into one another's arms like they'd never been apart, and while the world outside their cottage began to stir and rustle, murmur and then bustle with a new day beginning, Harry Pearce and Ruth Evershed slept the kind of sleep only those who know they are truly well loved are free to sleep.

_**Now I'm on a roll, I'm nowhere near finished with this story...**_

_**I have an inkling of where it's going – although that could change as I'm writing it.**_

_**This story is far more plot driven than I'd originally planned.**_


	7. Chapter 7

_**Some fluff at last!**_

_**This chapter is way less intellectual. Less exposition, but more fluff. The plot can wait...**_

_**Enjoy!**_

Ruth awoke to find she was alone on the couch, the rug tucked under her chin. There was no sign of Harry. She felt a brief pang of concern, but knew there was no reason for it. The kind of intimacy she had shared with Harry throughout the night as they'd sat together on the couch, lit only by the glow from the heater as they discussed their immediate pasts, was something far from everyday in Ruth's experience. The nearest she had come to that same degree of connection and closeness in a relationship with another had been her working relationship with Harry. She then caught the whiff of toast from the kitchen, along with the sound of the coffee percolator bubbling away. Tucking the rug around her for warmth, she shuffled to the kitchen. Still no Harry, although there were signs that he possessed basic culinary skills – two mugs, two plates, two egg cups, the butter dish, jam and honey, all arranged on the table. Ruth felt her face break into a smile, and she quite unconsciously uttered an `awww'.

Crossing to the sitting room she looked out the window, and yes, his car was still parked out front. A movement caught her eye, and there, strolling along the cliff-top towards the house was Ruth's own personal Knight In Shining Armour. In his hand he clutched a small bunch of flowers, and even as she watched, he bent to pick more, adding them to the bunch. If those on the Grid could see him now! Ruth drew the blanket more tightly around herself, enjoying watching him without his knowing. He seemed so un-Harry-like dressed in casual cargo pants and a military-style jacket, but she was rapidly warming to the casual Harry. Suddenly, he looked up and saw her standing at the window. His face changed from the pout of concentration to the broadest of smiles, and he waved to her like it was the most natural thing to be doing. Ruth now knew what it felt like to be living inside a Nescafé commercial.

She met him as he entered the house. She'd momentarily considered a flying tackle, but knew that such aggression on her part was no longer necessary. He was actually very pliable where she was concerned. Still holding the flowers in one hand, Harry grasped her to him with the other arm, and kissed her warmly and thoroughly.

"Hi," she said, coming up for air.

"Hi yourself," he whispered, nuzzling her ear.

"Are those flowers for me?"

She felt him nod, but he didn't look up. He'd taken her earring in his mouth and was running his tongue around her earlobe. Ruth let the rug drop from her, suddenly too hot for it. At this rate, the coffee pot would be boiled dry before they even made it to the kitchen.

Reluctantly, Ruth pushed him away. "I _really_ need to shower."

All that remained from their first proper breakfast together was the little vase of wildflowers in the centre of the table. Ruth knew she'd not be able to throw them away. She'd even mentally chosen the book into which she'd surely slip them to press them so that she could keep them forever as a reminder of this day. Which reminded her...

"My books, Harry, what happened to them? What did you end up doing with them? I can only hope they went to a good home." She knew he'd have looked after Fidget for her, but her books had been easily as precious as her cat, and likely more durable.

"They're at my place, in the attic. I couldn't bear to sell them, and to throw them out would have been unthinkable. I knew how much they meant to you." Harry looked up from drying a plate to catch her eye. "And they were all I had left of you," he added almost whispered, his emotion close to the surface.

She then covered the short space between them in an instant, removed the plate and tea towel from his hands, grasped his face between her hands and kissed him long and deeply. His response was immediate and equally as intense. Teeth clashed and tongues writhed as he grasped her buttocks and pulled her hard against him. It was a move short on subtlety, but Ruth knew exactly what he was saying. _It's time._ Briefly coming up for air, she looked at him and lifted her eyebrows.

"Harry Pearce – you've pulled!"

And so it was that at 11:38 on a brisk spring morning in coastal Devon, 20 months, 6 days and 21 hours after Ruth had left him forever for the second time, she led him by the hand up the stairs, and he eagerly followed.

Their lovemaking was careful, even awkward at first, but frantic leading up to its completion. They spoke little, other than to say the usual – _I love you, _or_ Is that alright? _or_ Move over a bit, my leg's going to sleep _or_ How'd you get that scar?._ It was not perfect, but they had still to discover their natural rhythm as a couple, and they had all the time in the world for that.

They lay together afterwards while their breathing steadied and slowed, comfortable at last in each other's company. A smile settled on Ruth's face.

"Is this what's called basking in the afterglow?" she asked, not really needing an answer. She liked words, and if she couldn't write them or read them, speaking was the next best thing. Harry responded to her question by nuzzling her neck and planting gentle kisses behind her ear.

"It's just that those airport novels talk about couples being spent after they have sex, and when I first read that when I was thirteen or fourteen, I thought it had something to do with money, and I thought to myself, what's money got to do with people having it off?"

Harry rolled on to his back and laughed. "You precious, precious woman!"

"Now I know that it's a metaphor. Spent equals empty - "

"Spent equals _knackered_," added Harry, before he leaned over and silenced her with a kiss.

"I'd say I'm sated," Ruth continued, after he'd rolled back on to his own side. "Are you sated, Harry?"

"Definitely."

Several minutes passed in near silence. They listened to the chirping of birds in the trees outside the window, and in the distance the lap of the waves as they licked the beach. How more perfect could this be?

"Ruth," he began – carefully, it seemed, "what made you choose that moment to jump me?"

"Harry Pearce! I _so_ did not jump you. I just _encouraged_ you. Nothing more."

"You jumped me, darling. You launched yourself across the kitchen at me, pelvis first. I had no say in the matter. Technically it may not have been rape, but...I don't know...in a court of law, who knows what the judgement would be."

"Sexual harassment, you mean? You didn't appear harassed, Harry. On the contrary. I'd say you enjoyed yourself a little too much, if that's possible."

"I can't possibly disagree with that, nor would I want to. So why that moment? Was it the flowers?"

"The flowers certainly helped, but I'm hoping you didn't pick them just to get yourself laid."

"As if I'm that cynical, sweetheart."

"It was what you said about my books, about why you'd held on to them. That they were all you had of me. That's a very sexy thing for you to have said, Harry."

He reached across to her and held her in a comfortable and loose embrace, his mouth close to her ear.

"I haven't been called sexy since – oh – 1989."

"I find that very hard to believe."

They slept away most of the afternoon, only waking when Harry's phone rang.

"Aren't you going to get that?" Ruth asked him, and he answered by rolling her on top of him and positioning her so that she could see his face as well as feel his growing excitement. Ruth was impressed that a man of his age could be ready for her that quickly. Their second time was slower, almost languid, and with their first time out of the way, they could relax into it and let down any walls which may still have existed between them. They made time to examine one another's bodies – with fingers and tongues as well as eyes - making quiet comments as they did so.

Harry: _"Your stabbing scar appears to be coming along nicely."_

Ruth: _"Perhaps I should get one the other side to match."_

Ruth: _"Stabbing?"_

Harry: _ "No - appendectomy."_

Ruth: _"Gunshot wound?"_

Harry: _"No. My best friend stabbed me with a pocket knife when we were ten. He wanted to see what colour my blood was."_

Ruth: _"That scar looks like it would have been really painful."_

Harry: _"Not as painful as losing you."_

They came together, laughing like teenagers as they did so.

"I aged ten years when I lost you," Harry murmured, once his pulse rate had dropped below 100, "and finding you again is stripping those years away."

"I love you, Harry Pearce. I promise to not run away from you again."

They slipped into the kind of comfortable silence familiar to seasoned lovers or people who have been together a long time – which Harry and Ruth had, but not in this way. Sometimes words diminished rather than added.

"Perhaps it's time we ate," Ruth mused, as much to herself as to Harry, "that's if you have an appetite for something other than me."

Harry laughed into her hair, more of a growl, really. "I could feast on your forever, my love."

"Nice thought, Harry, but we're both in the real world now where the laws of physics, nature and all the universal principles of time and space apply. We no longer inhabit that twilight world of espionage. In _this_ world – our world now - food is necessary to sustain life. If we continue to feast on each other we'll die."

"Better we die together than apart."

Ruth disengaged from his arms and turned to face him.

"We almost did, didn't we? Die apart, I mean."

Her words hung in the air like the smoke from a post-coital cigarette. Neither were keen to pursue this subject. The wounds for them both were still painful. The raw finality of death was a reality they'd each faced time and again, but Ruth's apparent death almost two years previously had left a scar which had damaged them both in ways they had still to examine. Ruth could feel Harry's eyes on her. She believed that they gave off a heat all of their own.

"Perhaps we should make a pact," Harry suggested. "Perhaps from now on we should agree to go everywhere together."

"Can that wait a few minutes?" Ruth replied. "I really need to pee, and the last thing I need for that is an audience."

Ruth rolled away from him, lifting his arm from her shoulders, then stepped off the bed and walked across the room, a bold move for her, given she was naked as the day she was born. She was enjoying her role as initiator. Harry sat back against the pillows, admiring her body and how it moved when she walked. He considered himself a lucky man.


	8. Chapter 8

_**This chapter was meant to be plot driven, but H & R had other plans!**_

Five days later they were lying together in a post-orgasmic glow, when Harry admitted to himself that as much as he could spend the rest of his days in this way, there were things which needed their attention, and to attend to these `things' required a trip to London. He had a cat – Ruth's – and a dog, and they would need him to return some time. Neighbourly kindness would only last just so long. He sighed heavily as he pondered leaving this cottage, even if only for a few days. These few days spent alone with Ruth had been the happiest of his life – all the more because he had believed her to be gone from him forever – and he would have been perfectly content for this pre-honeymoon honeymoon to have lasted for the rest of his days. He found he no longer craved the adrenalin high, or the intrigue, the secrets, the action, the fear, the constant danger, and the glory which accompanied a successful MI-5 operation. The high he felt when Ruth was near was enough excitement for Harry. Besides, the sex was amazing, and what man in his right mind would turn from that just so that he could go hunting the chimera (which had been created in the public's imagination) that was the eternal threat of an attack on the nation's security. He had not spent this much time alone with only one person since his own honeymoon thirty years earlier. Even then, he and Jane had felt a mild level of boredom in one another's company, and had chosen to eat out where they could interact with others.

He and Ruth were not like that. She was more than enough for him – in more ways than one. He loved being with her for her mind, her humour, her obvious love for him, her sense of the ridiculous, her compassion, and of course her body. They found they needed no-one else. For them, togetherness meant just that. There had been no discussion about their future. Their future as a couple was implied and accepted without question or even discussion. Their focus to this point had been on the now, and the business of bringing all the once-lost parts of themselves into the present.

Harry had turned off his mobile phone after it had rung on that first day he and Ruth had been in bed. He'd felt no urge to turn it back on, no curiosity about who it was had called. He had felt resentful of the intrusion into the sanctuary he and Ruth had managed to create for themselves. But there was a niggling thought eating away at him, and rather than bother Ruth with it, he knew that he needed to talk to someone, and that someone should probably be Malcolm.

On the eighth day, in the evening while they sat close to one another on the couch, Harry turned on his phone to discover he'd had 8 missed calls and around 30 missed texts. He groaned.

"Maybe I should throw the bloody thing away."

"Perhaps you need to get yourself another SIM," suggested Ruth, "or better still, a pay-as-you-go."

Harry didn't answer her, distracted as he was by his list of missed calls.

"One is from my daughter, and the other 7 are from Malcolm," he replied. "Something must be up."

"Do you really want to know about it, then?"

Harry sighed, and again turned off the phone.

"I have to go back to London in a day or two. There are things I need to attend to. When I came down here to be with you I just jumped in my car and came here."

"Do you need me to come with you?" Ruth asked.

"I don't _need_ you to, but I'd like it if you did. We did agree to stay together from now on."

Ruth giggled quietly.

"What?" he asked.

"Do you remember when that was? Right after we'd made love. My friend Saskia, from Oxford, used to say that you should always discount totally anything a man says to you during or immediately after sex, because he'll only say it so you'll go to bed with him again. Did you mean that Harry, or were you simply trying to get me back into bed with you."

"Both. I meant it, and I needed to ensure you'd want to make love to me again. Saskia sounds like a sad and twisted woman all the same."

"Perhaps she was. She also had more lovers in her first year at university than I am likely to have in several lifetimes."

Harry put both arms around Ruth, then leaned back against the cushions as he drew her close to his chest so that she was almost on top of him. Then he began to kiss her thoroughly – her mouth, her eyes, her ears, and then her neck. Ruth loved it when he kissed her neck, and her whole body felt the charge from his tongue, like an electric shock which passed from her neck right through every cell of her body to her toes. When he began to undo the buttons on her shirt she helped him, and as he slipped his fingers inside her bra she made room between them so that she could undo his belt, then his trousers, which allowed her fingers access to some of the more interesting features of his body. She wanted to suggest that they move to somewhere more comfortable, but they were already on a runaway train of their own making. Any interruption was unthinkable, as their hands moved quickly over one another in an attempt to remove as many garments as possible, and to connect with as much of the other's skin as possible.

They made love on the couch in the sitting room, the same place they'd talked through the night when Harry had first arrived. They were both still half-dressed, as their passion had carried them into the act itself and they'd had difficulty in keeping up with their bodies' demands. Harry kept one foot on the floor for balance and Ruth held on to the back of the couch with one hand so she'd not roll off him and on to the floor. As they came they laughed aloud – together.

"Oh, Harry," Ruth gasped once she was able to speak, "you surprise me every day." She kissed his chin in thanks,

"I wanted to give you a typical university shagging experience, darling. Now you can say. `Take that, Saskia!'"

"Ah, but where's the bottle of cheap plonk you used to get me drunk?"

"I didn't need it. I think the correct term is `easy lay'."

"Harry, you rotten sod! First you make me want you, then you insult me for it."

Harry laughed softly into her neck, content with his life, content with his love, knowing himself to be loved in return.

A little later they had each pulled on their clothes, and adjusted those that had become skewed. They gave each other smug smiles – like a private code, which perhaps said: _We done good, didn't we?_ - as they settled down to again sitting side-by-side.

Curiosity had niggled at Harry until he picked up his phone from the table by the couch, and again turned it on.

"Bloody hell!" he exclaimed. "Now it's 10 missed calls."

"Perhaps you should read the texts first," suggested Ruth, "then if you're still none the wiser, ring Malcolm. Avoidance is never a good idea."

Harry smiled at her, then bent down to kiss her fully on the mouth. "My wise, wise Ruth. Where would I be without you?"

So Harry began reading the texts, becoming more curious with each one he read.

"Listen to this," he said. "This is from Malcolm. _Hopefully by now you've had your fill of one another._...your _fill_ of one another? Is that from _A Midsummer Night's Dream_ or _Romeo and Juliet_? Cheeky bugger."

"Possibly neither, but Malcolm _has_ read every word of _The Complete Works Of Shakespeare_, and committed it to memory."

"But listen to this: _I think you should come back to London for a visit because I have come across __some more information surrounding Ruth's `death'. It's likely you'll both be interested. Ring me._ What does he mean by that?"

"Exactly what it says. He has uncovered some information which he suspects may interest us. You said yourself that we have to go back there for a few days anyway."

Harry put down the phone and turned to her. "Do you want to do this? Do you really want to pursue this further? It might bring to the light of day that which ought best be left alone."

"I believe we have little choice, Harry."


	9. Chapter 9

_**This chapter is very angsty – the kind of angst that had to happen.**_

The following evening Harry and Ruth drove back to London, and despite his deciding to not bother Ruth with his suspicions, he also had no desire to keep her out of the loop, so he began to share some of what had been sitting at the back of his mind.

"This one piece of information has been bothering me. Well, it's several pieces of information, really. It was after you'd died – or I was led to believe you'd died – and you were in the morgue and I was called in to identify you. What I've been trying to piece together is `who knew?' That is, who exactly was behind the plan to make it appear you'd died, and who was it knew about it? I didn't, and I believe no-one else at MI-5 knew, but there would have to have been some people who did. I think that the people who held you captive in France were no more responsible for this than you or I. For instance, how could a Coroner have examined your body and not known you were still alive? And the attendants at the morgue were English, so someone – or perhaps many `someone's' - in this country were in on it."

Harry looked across at Ruth to see her staring at the road ahead with a grim and stricken expression on her face.

"Darling, shall I stop talking?" he asked gently.

She shook her head. "It's just so hard hearing you talk about me like I wasn't there. Like I was really dead."

"But I had no reason at the time to believe you were not dead. The retrieval team declared you dead at the scene. I'd never seen any of them before, but that's not so unusual. The medical teams work on a rotational basis. It's clear they were in on it, obviously, and that meant they were under orders – but from whom? At the morgue I wasn't allowed to touch you. I asked could I, but the two morgue attendants said your body was `classified'. Now, what the hell does that mean? I didn't think too much about this at the time because I was paralysed with grief. I could hardly see my own hand in front of my face, and I could barely form a complete sentence, so I was in no fit state to be thinking critically."

He looked at Ruth again and saw tears falling down her cheeks, so he reached across with his left hand and brushed them away with his thumb. Perhaps, after all, he had better wait until he met with Malcolm.

"Shall I turn on the radio?"

"So long as it's not BBC4," she replied.

Harry smiled to himself as he turned on the radio to hear a Bach Fugue on piano, and judging by the incessant humming on the soundtrack, the pianist was Glenn Gould - a fine accompaniment to their journey, as light rain fell, and the car's wipers swished from side to side.

Ruth no longer had a home in London. Her only home was Justine's holiday cottage in Devon. For the time being that would have to be enough. Harry had told her to make his home her own, but it was not her home, at least not yet. The first thing she noticed as she entered the loungeroom was a framed photograph displayed on the table under the window. The people in the photograph were she and Harry, and they were leaning in to one another, both smiling at the camera. In the background were balloons, and a banner which suggested the occasion had been Christmas on the Grid. They'd looked like a couple even back then, back when the only `coupledom' they'd shared was their working relationship.

"Who took this photo?" she asked Harry.

"Oh, that. I think it was Nicole, that secretary who was with us for a few months from GCHQ. She wanted us all to pair off, if I remember. I was quite happy to put my arm around you and smile smugly while she took that photo"

"I have no memory of that being taken, Harry. You'd think I'd remember being that close to you, and looking that happy in your company."

"That might be a long-term effect of the TTX. There can be holes in the memory. They may or may not be permanent. Only time will tell"

Harry was worried about her. In Devon she had been the Ruth he'd remembered, the Ruth he'd loved for such a long time. Once on the road and headed for London she had begun to change. Since entering his London home, she had seemed troubled.

"Are you concerned for your safety, Ruth?"

"Harry, I don't know what's wrong with me. I feel jumpy, and I don't know what about."

Later they lay under the duvet in his large bed, something he'd fantasised about for years, and had until very recently believed would never happen. He held her close to him, mainly to provide comfort and reassurance. Anything more than that would have to wait.

"You know that I can't use my real name any more," she said quietly. "The money that someone – I have no idea who – put into my bank accounts is under two different names. Since I've been back in England I'm Eva Carlson. While I was in Asia I was Joanna Holland. I can't be Ruth any more, and I'm really quite sad about that."

Harry took a few moments to take this in. "Do you feel alright with me calling you Ruth? Would you rather I began calling you Eva?"

"No, that's not necessary. I can't imagine there are spooks under the bed listening in to our conversation."

Harry hoped she was right.

The next morning Harry rang Malcolm and invited him to dinner that night, as he had promised.

"I have some startling information, Harry. I think that you and Ruth need to know this. I'll need to bring my own laptop, if that's alright. There are a couple of programs I use which may come in handy. How is Ruth?"

"She was wonderful until we got back here. She seems a bit spooked – no pun intended."

"That will be the post traumatic stress kicking in. She's returning to the scene where it all went horribly wrong. Go easy on her, Harry. You're a very lucky man to have her back, after everything that's happened."

"I know that, Malcolm. Is 7 o'clock OK for you?"

Harry decided that it was his turn to cook dinner.

"You have the afternoon and evening off, Ruth. I'll do the shopping and the cooking. You said yourself I'm comfortable in the kitchen"

"But that was breakfast, Harry. This is dinner for three."

"Piece of cake," he said, kissing her on the cheek.

While Harry was out shopping, Ruth decided to take Scarlett for a walk. She still felt unsafe in London, but was tired from the fear which held her hostage. To face the open spaces outside Harry's house seemed like a good antidote to fear. They hadn't gone very far – only to the end of the street – when Ruth began to shake uncontrollably, so she headed back, much to the dog's confusion. Back inside the house, she knew it was time to look through her books, which apart from her cat, were the only possessions which still remained from her life as Ruth Evershed.

She climbed the narrow staircase to the attic, and then sat for a very long time just looking at the boxes piled against the wall opposite the door. She imagined Harry carrying all her books up here, then packing them in these boxes. She knew how much of an act of love and caring that had been on his part. She had a feeling that the books in those boxes held the keys to her current moodiness. Not knowing where to begin, she chose the smallest box of them all, which was still quite a heavy one when it came to her dragging it to the middle of the room. There on the top of this box, written in felt-tip pen in Harry's broad bold scrawl were the words: _Ruth's Books_, and beside these words he'd drawn a large heart, but with a break down the middle. She stared at it for some time, numb from her scalp to her toes. Then gradually she felt the sobs overtake her body until she rested her arms on the box, lay her head on them, and let it all out - the fear, the rage, the sense of loss she'd experienced over and over, especially in relation to Harry and herself and the life she'd been forced into leaving behind.

Hearing her sobs, Harry took the stairs two at a time and sat on the floor beside her before taking her in his arms. "It's alright now," he soothed. "I'm here, and I'm not about to go anywhere," and almost as an afterthought, "and neither are you."

Ruth sat back and allowed herself to fall against his chest while her tears fell freely. His strong arms held her securely.

After some time she quietened. Harry still held her, and she felt a gentle rocking, as he soothed her like he would a fretting baby. Eventually she felt able to speak. She knew that if she didn't speak to Harry, there'd be no-one else to tell.

"I was scared," she began. "I've lost my name, my identity, I'd lost my country, my house, my job, you...these books are all that remain of Ruth. I've been afraid that when you discovered this – that I'm no longer your Ruth - you wouldn't want me. You fell in love with Ruth, and now she only exists as a name on the inside of these books."

"You're still Ruth. You'll always be Ruth. You're _my_ Ruth. That will never change." He gently put his hand over her heart. "It's what's in here that makes you who you are. A name is just letters on a birth certificate."

Harry was no psychologist, but he could see that her latest exile – along with her faked death - had resulted in a certain level of identity disassociation. This was unlikely to be permanent, and like most things, could be healed with the kind of love for her which he had in abundance.

"Come on," Harry murmured. "I'll run a nice warm bath for you, and you can soak in it while I create a masterpiece in the kitchen"

Ruth smiled up at him from red-rimmed eyes.

"You don't believe me, do you, sweetheart?" he said, one eyebrow raised. "Just wait and see. I have hidden talents. Even more than you already know about." He winked at her, his implication clear, at least to her.


	10. Chapter 10

_**This chapter is longish, and heavily plot-driven. I wanted to create a reason for Ruth's `rebirth' which didn't involve the supernatural, and that took some explaining. Again, `Spooks' is hyper-reality, so my explanation may make sense only to me! The `reason' is hardly original, but it is topical.**_

_**Some fluff & banter at the end...**_

Harry's Thai chicken with mushrooms, accompanied by jasmine rice and a green salad was surprisingly good, delicious even. Ruth could see he was a man of many talents, many of them hidden and so known only to her. She smiled to herself whilst gazing into her glass of wine.

"I'm glad to see you two so happy." Bending towards her, Malcolm spoke quietly and conspiratorially, his eyes sparkling with pleasure. "I know we all placed bets on whether you and Harry would – you know – and we shouldn't have embarrassed you, but - "

"Malcolm, it's fine now. It's all water under the bridge. No need to apologise."

"I felt so bad about -"

"Honestly, Malcolm, we've moved on, Harry and I."

"I can see that. You fit well together."

Ruth twirled the stem of her wine glass, concentrating on the effect this had on the chenin blanc within. She could not help smiling, as much as she was trying to be serious. If only Malcolm knew just how well she and Harry `fit' together! Her own memories from only two days ago of them `fitting well' together like a couple of nineteen-year-olds on the couch in the Devon cottage left her cheeks warm and her body tingling.

"I hadn't realised Harry was so...domesticated," Malcolm continued.

"Oh, he's just showing off for you, Malcolm."

"I think that perhaps the one he's showing off for is you, Ruth."

"Ta-daa!" Harry brought dessert from the kitchen and carefully placed the tray holding three small bowls at the centre of the table. "Beat that, Jamie Oliver!"

"You made that _yourself_?" asked Malcolm. "Tell me you bought it ready made."

"Créme Brulee – made by these very hands." Harry lifted his hands and turned them first one way then the other. Ruth wondered what Malcolm _really_ thought about this dramatic change in his once taciturn and often demanding boss. Sometimes Ruth had had to pinch herself to ensure she was not living in a dream state.

Harry played waiter as well as chef, and placed each individual serving of crème brulee in front of them. Firstly he placed Ruth's, reaching around to kiss her as he did so. Then he waited on Malcolm.

"I'll have mine without the kiss, thank you, Harry."

The dessert was almost perfect, and Ruth was at last at a place of peace in her life. For now.

"How is your mother, Malcolm?" she asked.

"Not too bad, and thanks for asking, Ruth. She doesn't venture out much these days. The doctor said it's her rheumatoid arthritis. She depends on a number of us to look after her. My cousin's wife is with her tonight, and will be staying over, so I have the night off." Ruth felt sad that Malcolm had not managed to find the kind of personal happiness she and Harry were now living. He deserved to be loved well. He was a good man.

Ruth and Malcolm moved to the lounge room while Harry cleared the dining room of dishes. As Malcolm opened his laptop on the coffee table, he noticed the photo of she and Harry on the table under the window.

"That was a good party," he commented. "You and Harry danced together, and we were all betting you'd go home together. Alas, that was not to be."

"I can't remember it, Malcolm. I wish I could."

"That'd be the TTX."

"You knew?" Ruth was startled.

"Only since Harry and I talked on the phone. But there's quite a conspiracy behind what happened to you. Are you sure you're up to hearing it?"

"Malcolm, if I don't hear it from you, I'll be forever wondering. I need to know, even if I don't like what I hear."

Harry brought in a tray laden with coffee pot, cups, a bottle of Cointreau, three liqueur

glasses, and a bowl of chocolate treats.

"Tell me you didn't make these too," said Malcolm, tucking into a chocolate.

"I cannot lie. I got those in the market. Help yourselves."

"You make me feel bad, Harry. I could never have done all this."

"Ah," Harry replied, "and nor can I do all that hocus pocus you do so well, Malcolm. We each have our talents."

"You seem to have been hiding many of yours, Harry," Malcolm quipped.

Harry sat on the settee next to Ruth, while Malcolm occupied a chair opposite, his laptop open on the low table in front of him.

"It's hard to know where to start. There is such a web of intrigue which sustains this situation. My cousin's son, Robert, loaned me the anti-encryption software I used." Malcolm looked at Harry. "Just in case you thought I may have stolen it from MI-5."

"That would be nigh on impossible, Malcolm, given MI-5's security measures."

"Robert was the one who provided me with the algorithm -"

"Malcolm, " interrupted Harry, "unlike you and Ruth, my IQ is not over 200, and I glaze over whenever I hear words like `encryption' and `algorithm'. Just assume that I trust your sources, your judgement, your software _and_ the conclusions you have drawn. So, what are your findings?"

"Very well," continued Malcolm. "What Robert helped me discover and decipher..." Malcolm paused to look at Harry.

"That's fine, Malcolm. `Decipher' I can manage."

"Thank you. So my software showed me a spike in email traffic between the Home Secretary's office and Downing Street in the weeks prior to Ruth's – er – accident. In these emails they spoke of Operation Haedes – spelled H-a-e-d-e-s -"

"Those bastards," breathed Ruth. "They used Homer's _Iliad_. They knew I'd studied the classics." Her eyes were fiery, rather than sad. "Haedes was where the souls went after death, and until they were buried, they'd visit their loved ones in their dreams."

Harry put his arm around Ruth, intending to draw her closer to him, but she shrugged it off.

"Harry, I'm fine. Really. I need to know this, but I warn you I may get very angry. I don't need your protection right now. Maybe later," she added, smiling at him weakly.

"Cut to the chase, Malcolm," Harry said. "Just the facts will do."

"Alright then. None of this is fact. It's all supposition."

"That's to be expected, Malcolm. The three of us lived in those shadows for so long that fact and fiction frequently begin to look the same. What is the chain of responsibility?"

"I was most interested in who or what was driving this. Where it all began, if you like. Firstly, it appears that Towers offered Ruth the job at the Home Office to get her away from you, Harry."

"_What?_ Why?"

"Because with her by your side during operations you were calm and confident. And logical. You acted directly from her analysis, which as we all know, was impeccable, and always wise and well thought out."

"Thank you, Malcolm," Ruth murmured.

"Don't mention it, Ruth. That part, at least, is the truth. You, Harry, were no longer the loose cannon they needed you to be."

"Loose cannon?" exclaimed Harry. "That's not very flattering."

"But it was true all the same," Ruth said quietly.

Malcolm continued. "They needed you to be...somewhat gung ho, like you were in the past, before Ruth came on the scene. They needed you to take the kind of risks you would never have taken had Ruth been working with you. With Ruth still working beside you, despite her working for Towers, they had to remove her. Not to kill her, because that would remove the possibility that she could be of use later if you didn't play the game according to their rules."

"You mentioned Downing Street, Malcolm," said Ruth. "Surely this didn't originate there. Who was it could possibly benefit from this?"

"Every government can be bought. The idea of a true democracy is just that – an idea, a fantasy if you like – and all democracies, no matter how effective or how stable, are open to manipulation. That is, governments can be bought. Have you ever heard of Pax Una?"

"Peace Together," Ruth replied. "Pax Una is Latin for peace together."

"It's the name of the corporate entity which owns Kyton Aerospace in Northumberland."

"The aircraft company?" Ruth's face was showing that the giant penny had almost dropped for her.

"Yes, that's the one. They design and manufacture military aircraft, but the profits from this company feed the parent company – that's Pax Una - which manufactures and sells?..." Malcolm waited for either of his listeners to finish his sentence.

"Arms to the Arabs," said Ruth. "This is about the Arab Spring, isn't it?"

"That's right, Ruth. And to summarise, the government of this country sacrificed Ruth's job and her life, as well as yours too, Harry, as it turns out, in order to support and encourage the unrest in the Arab countries - Tunisia, Egypt, Libya, Algeria, Yemen, Syria, and so on – for the _express purpose_ of Pax Una being able to maximise their profits through selling weapons to these countries whose strife they had in part created."

"Like Russia did in Afghanistan," said Ruth.

"Precisely," replied Malcolm. "It's a ploy as old as human warfare."

"We were not trading in oil, then," Harry observed.

"Only very marginally," replied Malcolm, "Enough to deflect suspicion. That fact was very well hidden in a series of encrypted – sorry Harry, it's the best word for the job – messages between Pax Una and Downing Street. I doubt even William Towers knew the full story." Malcolm uttered an uncharacteristic sigh. "So while on the one hand you were busy flushing out and catching terrorists, our government has been equally as vigilant in creating them."

"Bastards!" breathed Harry.

"On the up side," Malcolm continued, "because I believe there is one – Ruth is back, and you have left the service, Harry, and you are together. Which is no doubt where you are meant to be. In my experience, dark clouds always have a silver lining."

"Tell that to the kids shot dead on the streets in those Arab countries," Harry said bitterly. "Tell that to their parents."

"Informing the media about this would be useless. The cover-up is very thorough, and goes right to the top."

"Malcolm, thank you for all the work you did on this," Ruth said. "I feel much better about it already."

"Well, I don't," interrupted Harry. "I have a burning desire to go in to see Towers tomorrow and punch his chubby, supercilious, unctuous face. Upper class prat!"

"Harry," interjected Ruth, "maybe Towers allowed me to continue to work with you because he actually had an inkling of what was going on, and he wanted to prevent it."

"Had he wanted to prevent what ultimately happened to you, Ruth, then he never would have allowed you anywhere near me."

"Harry, the very nature of this conspiracy means that it was not personal. You and Ruth just happened to be `useful' to the cause. I doubt it would be possible to identify the person or persons responsible for this conspiracy," continued Malcolm. "In a way, everyone in the chain of secrets is responsible. The lower a person is on the chain of command, the less responsible you are, but the more likely you are to suffer the consequences of the actions of others above you in the chain. Harry, you and Ruth have both suffered enormously from what happened, but you were not responsible, and nor was Towers. I doubt he had any idea of what they had planned for Ruth."

Harry sighed heavily. "Small wonder I felt that resigning was my only option. I'm so relieved to be out of it."

The three of them became silent, contemplative as they sipped their liqueur, each lost in private thoughts.

As Malcolm left, they agreed to get together again soon. Ruth had enjoyed seeing him, despite the message he had brought them.

"I'll help you tidy up and load the dishwasher," she said to Harry as he began to gather together the glasses and cups.

"You will not. This has been my treat, and all you have to do now is go to bed and wait for me. I have another surprise for you, so don't go to sleep until I get there." He leaned across the coffee table to kiss her.

"Harry, you do understand that you've set an impossible precedent. If in the future you want to get in my good books, or pamper me in any way, tonight will be the absolute minimum I will expect."

"And you'll be worth it," he said, smiling at her before he took the tray through into the kitchen.

Ruth had just entered that amorphous twilight state which precedes sleep when she heard him in the bathroom, washing and cleaning his teeth and then changing for bed. Despite trying hard to be quiet, Harry ran into the door frame to the bedroom, stubbing his toe.

"Jee-_zus_!" he exclaimed, "Who moved the doorway?"

Ruth reached up and turned on the bedside light on her side, revealing a bent-over Harry examining his toe. Ruth caught his eye and patted his side of the bed. Despite it being only eleven days since Harry had turned up at her front door in Devon, she already felt proprietorial in relation to him. There was a togetherness in their relationship which many couples took years to cultivate, but which had been there right from the start with she and Harry. A thought jumped into her head: _We're already married_.

"So what's your surprise?" Ruth asked. "Perhaps you've forgotten that I've already seen all you have to offer."

Harry chuckled, leaning across to open the top drawer of his bedside cupboard.

"This," he said, handing her a small package in a white paper packet. It was about the same size as a tennis ball. For a very brief moment she thought he was springing an engagement ring on her. She hadn't wanted that to be the surprise, since they'd not even discussed marriage, and being one half of the partnership, Ruth wanted to have some say in the whether and when. If there was ever to be a ring, she also wanted to be able to choose it for herself.

She took the package from him, hoping that it was something she'd like. Slowly, Ruth unwrapped the paper from the gift. When all the paper had fallen away she saw that it was a snow dome. She shook it without paying a lot of attention to the scene inside it. Harry put his hand out to stop her shaking it again.

"Look at it," he said. So she did.

"Oh Harry, that's so _sweet_ of you."

Inside the snow dome was a miniature Eiffel Tower.

"I wanted this to be a reminder to you about keeping Paris for someone special. I was hoping you meant me."

"Harry Pearce, you are the _sweetest man_!"

"Enough of the `sweet', Ruth. You forget I used to run MI-5. Sweet I'm not. Nasty I can be."

"Harry, I think I know you about as well as anyone has ever known you. Like it or not, you _are_ sweet!"

"So," said Harry, leaning across to her, moving in to kiss her, "do I get a reward or what?"

"Harry," said Ruth, totally ignoring him, "did you ever hear about the woman who married the Eiffel Tower? True story. She had some condition – can't remember what it was called – where she was only able to fall in love with inanimate objects. She decided to consummate her relationship with the tower, so she -"

"Ruth!"

"What?"

"I don't give a toss about that woman. She sounds barking mad. I only care about us. I only want you to consummate with me."

"I'm not sure that's the correct use of the word, Harry. Consummate actually means `to bring to perfection'. Are we perfect in that department do you think? Can we _be_ any more perfect?"

"Well, I'm not sure. How long has it been? Two days? I've forgotten. Do you think we ought to – er – do it again maybe?"

Holding the snow dome tightly in one hand, Ruth leaned across to Harry's side of the bed and kissed him slowly and deeply. "OK, let's get consummating," she murmured into his mouth.

_**More coming (and no pun intended!)**_

_**(And as improbable as it sounds, the story about the woman who married the Eiffel Tower happens to be true.)**_


	11. Chapter 11

_**For readers in countries where the game of cricket is not a national obsession, MCC is the official acronym of the English national cricket club; Lords is the `hallowed ground' of cricket, and an `Ashes Test' is the name given to the test matches played between England and Australia. It's all terribly historical and holier-than-holy. Just thought I'd make an attempt to explain it, given Harry is meant to be interested in cricket.**_

_**I had massive fun writing this chapter. My aim in writing is always to firstly entertain myself, and in so doing, hopefully you also will be entertained.**_

Harry was woken by the sound of the doorbell. A quick glance at the bedside clock showed the time to be just before 7 am.

He stepped out of bed and slipped on his bathrobe, tying it tightly around his waist. Barefooted, and naked beneath the bathrobe, he went downstairs and opened the front door to find Catherine on his doorstep.

"Don't you ever turn on your phone?"

"Lovely to see you, Catherine. Do come in."

Harry gave his daughter a quick hug, and kissed her cheek as she stepped into the hallway.

"Come through, and I'll make us some breakfast."

"Dad," Catherine implored, "I've been trying to get hold of you, and now you're still in bed! Why aren't you ready for work?"

Reaching the electric kettle and turning it on, Harry placed tea in the teapot, then turned to face her. "Because I resigned from MI-5."

"When did this take place, and why didn't I know about it?"

"It was sudden, and it took place nearly two weeks ago. Very few people know. I wanted to slink away quietly and without a fuss. I'm done chasing the bad guys. There were just too many of them." He put two slices of bread in the toaster.

"So what did you do to upset the Home Secretary?"

"It was he who upset me, Catherine, but it's all rather academic now. So what's happening in your life?"

"You didn't read my texts? Dad, I sent you at least ten of them in the past couple of weeks."

"Sorry, I've been distracted."

Which was when Ruth entered the kitchen wearing nothing but one of Harry's old bathrobes, the black one with the logo of the MCC on the breast pocket, the one he'd been presented with fifteen years earlier, when he'd first headed MI-5, and had been invited to have lunch with the members at Lords during an Ashes Test.

"Hi," Ruth said to them both. She then smiled directly at Harry's daughter and held out her hand. "You must be Catherine. I'm Ruth."

Catherine stared at her, then looked to Harry for help.

"Catherine, this is Ruth. She's the woman I love, and the reason I've left the service."

"Oh right," Catherine said, shaking Ruth's hand and looking her up and down.

"It appears we have some catching up to do," Harry smiled at Catherine. "Tell me your news," he added, noting that Catherine's eyes were still on Ruth, and her face registered a level of shock somewhere between being told she'd won the national lottery and encountering aliens on her way home from the pub.

Ruth walked across the kitchen to Harry and reached up to kiss him squarely on the mouth. "Good morning, darling," she said, slipping a hand inside his bathrobe to touch his bare chest, twirling his chest hairs around her fingers.

Harry responded to the kiss with his eyes closed, slipping his arm around her waist. "Good morning to you, too." He then smiled into Ruth's eyes.

"If you'll excuse me, I have some things to do," Ruth said apologetically, turning towards the door, "like putting on some clothes for a start."

_You are __good_, Harry thought to himself as he watched her leave the room. Ruth hadn't missed a beat, while on the other hand, Catherine looked like she was close to requiring resuscitation.

"Toast?" Harry said, waving a slice in the air before he put it on a plate.

"Isn't she -?"

"That's Ruth. I've told you about her before. I'm sure I have."

"Isn't she your analyst - the one who died?"

"It was all a mistake. She wasn't dead after all. Honey or jam? I can't remember your preferences."

"Dad, I heard stories from people. You were in the depths of despair. Even Mum was worried about you. The word she used was `bereft'."

"She did? Well, that was then, and this is now. Ruth's back and we're happy, as you can see. So what's your news?"

Upstairs Ruth ran a bath for herself, and stepped into it carefully, having made it hotter than usual. Sinking beneath the bubbles, she smiled to herself. She had no problem at all with Harry's daughter. In fact, she was relieved Catherine had come around to the house, because it seemed unlikely Harry would ring her, so engrossed had they been in one another. She had felt the need to establish herself in Catherine's mind as Harry's lover, just in case Harry had forgotten to mention her. Yes, she was relishing her evolving role as initiator and occasional femme fatale! It was a little like being back on the Grid, but with the added benefit of regular sex with Harry.

Harry and his daughter spoke no more until he had placed on the table between them the teapot and cups, and plates carrying toast with jam and honey. He poured tea for them both, and began munching the toast with jam.

"You're a dark horse," Catherine said at last.

"No," replied Harry, "just careful."

"Well, I hope you're _being_ careful, if you get my meaning. She's much younger than you, and accidents do happen."

"Catherine, were I to require family planning advice – which I suspect is what you are unwisely offering – I'd be looking elsewhere for it. This is not something I wish to be discussing with you."

"Come on, Dad. I was just making an observation. I hadn't realised she was so young – compared to you, that is."

Harry took another bite from his toast, concentrating hard on chewing carefully.

"There's fifteen years between us. That's not so much. Now – less about me, and more about you."

Catherine sat back with her tea cup between her hands. She still had not eaten anything Harry had offered.

"I'm headed for New York. I thought I might try to get something in and around the United Nations."

"In and around? That's somewhat non-specific, wouldn't you say? Do the words `lap of the Gods' not ring any bells for you? New York is a city which chews people up and spits them out."

"I can't stay in Israel. My efforts are not being met with results."

"In that respect," said Harry quietly, "we have a lot in common."

"You used to think your job was the most important one in the world – saving the country and all that. I was really proud of what you did, and I always wanted to be like you...despite the things I may have said in anger."

"Thank you, Catherine. That means a lot to me. I ruined one family with my ambition, and I'm not about to repeat that."

"So you _are_ planning to have children."

"I didn't say that. Ruth and I haven't discussed it. But I do want to be present in her life in a way I wasn't able to be with your mother."

"Funny you should say that," Catherine mused. "Ari and I tried over and again to make it work, but he always put Israel before me. Our relationship didn't have a chance. It only occurred to me once I got back here how much like you and Mum we were, Ari and me. I have to make a new start somewhere, and New York is as good as anywhere else."

"When are you leaving?"

"Today. In a a little under four hours."

"So why didn't we get to see you before this? You'd really like Ruth."

"You didn't answer your phone, Dad! I came around here most evenings, but it soon became apparent you were not here."

"Ruth and I have been hiding out in Devon. Most likely we'll be going back there in a day or so."

"They do have mobile phone reception in Devon. It's not the end of the earth."

Harry could sense her frustration, but he refused to feel guilty about not being available to his daughter, a woman already in her 30's. There were limits to a parent's duties, especially once a child reached adulthood. He waited a few moments while she breathed through her anger.

"Tell me a bit about her. Ruth, I mean."

Harry's face broke into the kind of smile Catherine had always wanted him to have when he looked at her. "She's wonderful. She's very clever - much cleverer than me - and she's funny, and she's warm and caring, compassionate, and decent. She keeps me in line in the nicest possible way. She also has several other qualities which I'm not about to share with you, due to their personal nature."

"I'm glad you're happy, Dad. You deserve some peace and contentment in your life."

"And passion, I hope."

"Yes, Dad. And passion."

Catherine left without touching her toast. They embraced at the door, and again he watched as she left to find her life in some other country far from home. Perhaps this was what Catherine's life was going to be like for a while, until she found out who she was. He waved as her taxi pulled away, then closed the door and went upstairs in search of Ruth.

He found her in the bath.

"I hope you don't mind me hiding away in here," Ruth said, "I wanted to give you some space. The last person a young woman wants to meet is her father's lover."

"But you're so much more to me than that."

"What are we to one another, Harry? It's an undefined relationship we have here."

"Not to me it's not. I think of you as my life partner. You're my wife in all but the piece of paper."

Ruth moved her legs to make room at the other end of the bath, then reached her hand up to him.

"Why don't you join me? The water's still warm."

Harry, needing little encouragement, slipped out of his bathrobe and stepped into the bath. Ruth, not having seen him from that angle, smiled at the image he presented. This was what intimacy meant to her – all the little things they shared throughout the course of the day, the total absence of self-consciousness, and the blanket of love and trust which surrounded them.

Harry slipped down into the water, immersing himself completely, so that the curls in his hair straightened, becoming plastered against his head. He surfaced, wiping his hands down his face. Ruth reached out with her foot and – somewhat predictably, Harry thought – thrust her toes between his legs in a `toe grab'.

"You have `em, I grab `em," Ruth explained cryptically.

"I love you, Ruth Evershed," he laughed, pushing her foot away from him.

At this moment, the Grid could not be further away, and he had not missed it for even a second since he had walked out for the last time.

_**Not finished yet. There are still a few things I want to cover.**_


	12. Chapter 12

_**The style of this story has suddenly gone a bit Wordsworth. I'm just going along for the ride, and I hope you will too.**_

_**Thanks to everyone who has left reviews and asked for more. Without your encouragement I no doubt would have wound this up a few chapters back. I have no intention of following H & R to their respective graves, but I am wanting to tidy up their lives post-MI-5...chiefly so that they have an honest basis on which to have a decent lifelong relationship. I think this is the least I can do, given what Kudos did to them.**_

On their second day back in Devon, Harry and Ruth took a walk along the beach. It was overcast, the breeze off the sea biting their exposed skin. They were both dressed for the cold in jeans, windcheaters and hooded parkas. They strolled, not touching, waiting for the other to initiate conversation. It was a comfortable silence they shared, something only people who trusted one another would embrace with ease.

Harry had been trying to find the right words since they'd packed themselves, their clothes, the animals, and some of Ruth's books into his car for the trip back to the Devon coast. If they were to make it in the long term, there were still some things he needed to tell Ruth. He believed that he needed her understanding, but most of all he wanted her forgiveness. Scarlett trotted along beside them, occasionally running off to follow yet another new smell. She was in Doggy Heaven. Fidget, on the other hand, had not enjoyed either the car trip there or her new home. She was still confined to the house for fear she'd run off and hitch a ride back to London. In a huff, she had retreated to the space under the spare bed upstairs.

Another couple, each around Harry's age, walked along the beach towards them . Hands tucked into the pockets of their parkas, they were engaged in an animated conversation which resulted in the man throwing his head back and laughing. "`Morning," they each said as they passed, displaying wide smiles. For a moment Harry suspected them of eavesdropping on he and Ruth, but then dismissed the thought, recognising the shades of the spook which still inhabited his being, and perhaps always would. That was the trouble - once a spook, always a spook.

_So _– he thought – _here goes._

"Ruth," Harry began, "I have some things I need to talk to you about. Some things I want you to know."

"Not more secrets, I hope. I don't need to know them all. Perhaps some things need to be left in the past."

"Not these."

The wind dropped suddenly, and the sun appeared from behind a cloud. Harry Pearce was not a man who believed in signs, but be that as it may, he took this change in the weather as a sign for him to continue. He was happy to accept help from any available source, even the God he believed did not, could not exist. He had spent so much of his life dealing with the shadow side of human nature that for him the idea that a deity could be in charge of it all was preposterous, to say the least.

"Ruth, just listen. That's all I ask of you." He grabbed her hand and tucked it into the pocket of his parka, holding it there, grasped in his own. His parka was long and had deep pockets.

Ruth looked up at him with smiling eyes. "You've never done that before."

"I'm having to do a lot of things I've never done before." _Like explaining my behaviour_, he thought, which was something he'd not managed to do in any of his personal relationships to date.

"Ruth, please hear me out. I have to say this for both of us, but most of all I have to say it for me."

They were momentarily distracted by Scarlett barking at another dog which accompanied a lone man who walked with a fishing rod in one hand, and a tackle box in the other.

"He's optimistic," Ruth commented.

"I feel bad about the way I treated you while we worked together."

"Harry -"

"No, Ruth, I must say this. It's only becoming clear to me, now I'm away from there. It was a pressure-cooker for much of the time, and as much as I fed off that, and even enjoyed it for a time, I treated you very badly. The more I knew I loved you, the less able I was to deal with the feelings I had for you. If it wasn't you pushing me away, it was me pushing you away. I was so scared so much of the time - not of the events we had to face while on the Grid, but of loving you too much, and then losing you. I couldn't let myself indulge in that. Not only would it have interfered with the quality of our work together, but working together and being together in our private lives would have changed _us. _I was so afraid of so many things."

Ruth looked up at him. "Tell me what you were afraid of. Help me to understand."

"I was afraid of being rejected – by you. I was afraid that we'd be together, and happy, and then some tragedy would befall us... which it ultimately did." Harry's voice then became quieter and deeper. "Most of all I was afraid of feeling what I knew I felt for you, because then I'd have to feel the pain of the losses – of Ros and Adam and Jo, and all the others who died on my watch – and the pain of the betrayals. My work involved so much betrayal. But what was worse, I'd have to acknowledge how broken the world was, and how little difference I was making. To open up one emotional door would have meant I'd have had to open them all...and I just wasn't brave enough to do that...and I'm sorry. Instead I chose to keep you at arm's length. I'm sorry for all the times I shut you out. I'm sorry for not being prepared to trust you with this -" Harry put his free hand over his own heart. "But most of all I'm sorry for all the hurt I have caused you, and I'm sorry for all the precious time we've lost."

Ruth gently lifted her hand from his pocket, stopped, turned towards him and reached up to put her arms around his neck. She drew his head down as she embraced him. "Thank you," she said, her mouth close to his ear. "You have just given me the most extraordinarily beautiful gift."

Ruth pulled away slightly so she could look Harry in the face. He was not able to reply with words as his eyes were glistening with tears, and she could see the quivering of his bottom lip, as he battled to hold in his own emotions. Harry then slipped both his arms around her, and pulled her to him. With his face buried in her hair, he sobbed out his anguish for all the lost opportunities, the loss of her, as well as the unnecessary loss of life.

They stood that way for a long time. The laughing couple returned along the beach, giving the embracing couple a wide berth. A public beach it may have been, but some things, such as the right to privacy of a couple in love, were sacrosanct.

Much later they were sitting with a pot of tea between them, what remained of their dinner now on the cupboard beside the sink. Harry smiled into his cup.

"What is it?" Ruth asked.

"I was thinking," Harry said, "that only a month ago I'd have been drowning myself in whiskey. I would have considered that a cup of tea at this early hour might turn me into a wowser."

They went to bed early, not to make love, but to slip under the duvet together and lie side by side, holding hands. They talked into the night, mostly about their time on the Grid, sometimes about their respective childhoods, and Harry even offered a little insight into his own marriage. It was a sharing and a revealing of parts of themselves which were normally kept carefully hidden. They had each long held such things where they could not be seen, and now it was safe to bring them into the dim light from the moon which shone through their bedroom window. They fell asleep, still holding hands, their breathing in sync with the sounds of the night outside the window. Rather than terrify, as they may have done in the past, such sounds which only the night brings danced around them softly, kissing them as they slept.

Since their walk along the beach, there had been a subtle, yet perceptible, change in their togetherness. It was as though, as they'd embraced on the beach, oblivious to the world around them, the earth's axis had shifted ever so slightly, and there had been a realignment of the Moon with the Sun. Where there had previously been a kind of desperation between them, like they had to make the most of every minute they were together for fear their time would run out – now there was an acceptance that what they had, and how much more time together they'd share, was perfect in its own way. Where they had both been wary of talking about certain things from their pasts, that which they had surmised was best left in the past – now the door had been opened, there was nothing they could not face together and with honesty. Where they had both – in their separate ways – avoided talking of a future together – now their future was a vast canvas stretching before them, waiting for them to dip their brushes and paint.

_**I could quite easily leave the story there, but I won't.**_

_**There are a few ends I wish to tie up first.**_


	13. Chapter 13

Harry and Ruth had spent the week talking.

They had engaged in the kind of self-revelation which left them each exposed to the other. It was a different kind of nakedness to the one they experienced when they came together as lovers. More was required of them than the mere peeling of clothing from their bodies. It had been exhausting, so much so that sex had been put aside for the time being. When they went to bed each night they fell asleep almost as soon as they settled. Shoulders touching, and sometimes hands, often one with chest and stomach against the curved back of the other, they shared their dreams, in that world where dreams happen, and everything is possible.

It was their 8th morning back in the Devon cottage, and 3 weeks since Harry had first left London to join her. They sat over breakfast for much longer than usual, frequently glancing up and catching the eye of the other. There was a newness to their togetherness, like driving up a steep road into the mountains, the destination hidden, but with the promise of indescribable beauty ahead. Both were hyper-aware of it, and neither wished to risk destroying it by moving too fast.

They were beginning again.

Ruth spoke, looking up at him, searching his face before she began.

"Tell me about Albany, Harry. Would you have risked handing over a genetic weapon had you known it worked?"

Harry sighed heavily, choosing his words carefully. Albany would no doubt haunt him for the rest of his days, but because this was Ruth, he needed to be honest with her. "What's left to say that I didn't demonstrate to you at the time? I knew Albany was useless, so that left me only one option – I _had_ to save your life. If that set a bad precedent, then so be it. I'd do the same again in a heartbeat. I love you now, I loved you then, and that was my reason for letting Lucas have Albany. But I still stand behind the report I wrote for the enquiry. Your value to the country went far beyond my feelings for you, and whilst that wasn't the primary reason for my choice, it _did_ vindicate my decision to save your life." Harry paused to consider his choice of words, because in a way, he knew Ruth was testing him. "But had Albany been live...I would genuinely have had two choices, rather than only one. I still think I would have chosen to save you... but not because my love for you outweighed my commitment to my country. There was never any guarantee that the Chinese were going to activate Albany. My instinct was that they wouldn't use it as designed, and they'd only ever use it as a deterrent. In the hands of the Russians or the Iraqis or Syria, on the other hand, the outcome may have been different, and I like to think that I would have been brave enough to put the best interests of the nation above my desire that you live. But were China to have acquired a live Albany, I would have opted to save you, for which I would have been gaoled for treason, and you would have lost all respect for me for the rest of our days. Either option would be unthinkable. I'm old enough now to consider that sacrificing a life – any life - for a cause is anything but wise – courageous, yes...noble, yes...but _necessary_? I hardly think so." He looked up at her. She was watching him closely. "Maybe I would have flourished in gaol. The old Harry would have written his memoirs. The Harry I am now? I would take any penalty handed out if it meant you could continue to live in the world, even were I destined to not to be part of that same world."

Ruth smiled and nodded at him as their eyes met across the table. She mouthed `thank you'. Her eyes shone with love for him, this man who was so flawed, but with a powerful heart at his centre.

"There's just one more thing, Harry," she said, looking down as she swirled the dregs at the bottom of her tea cup, "I've been meaning to ask you...what made you listen to Justine that day when she sat on our bench? She had the greatest confidence in her own powers of persuasion, while I was almost sure you'd either get up and walk away, or tell her to get lost. I saw her strategy as being terribly risky, knowing how grumpy you can be."

Harry did not challenge the word `grumpy'. He knew it was true. He had been such a bear to be around, especially when on the Grid. There had always been so much at stake.

"I'd left Thames House at lunchtime that day. I had a meeting mid-afternoon, but I couldn't bear being inside any longer. Every day I spent there after you …... went away...was torturous, and I found being outside soothing. While sitting on our bench I could imagine you were there beside me." He smiled at the memory. "Inside my head I used to imagine whole conversations with you; there were times when I thought I could hear you talking to me. I'm sure that wasn't conducive to my mental health, but at the time I didn't much care about my health, mental or otherwise. I was in no real hurry that day, so I suppose that was why I let her say her piece. Initially I thought she was one of those kooks who'll do anything to get into the service. It was when she said that she was acting on instructions from someone I'd believed to be dead that I had to find out if it was you. From that moment I _had_ to know. You can't believe the number of nights I'd lain in bed unable to sleep, imagining you, by some miracle, coming back to me...and then...it happened, and it wasn't a dream."

Harry ran his finger around the rim of his empty tea cup, all the time watching her face. There was so much more he needed to say. Had he kept talking he feared the words would tumble out of him in random order, and Ruth may again misunderstand him, as had happened so often in the past. He couldn't afford for that to happen.

Suddenly Harry rose from his chair across the table from her, and walked quickly to her side. He took one of her hands and lifted her from her chair into his arms in a fluid and natural movement. He held her close to him, his arms around her, his lips next to her ear. Ruth tucked her arms underneath his jumper, and grasped his back through his shirt. She could feel the vibrant warmth of him, as well as the movement of his muscles as his arms moved back and forth across her shoulders and back, and because he was so very alive, she knew she was also.

They grasped hold of one another, suddenly aware of their physicality, their need for one another. Harry bent to find her mouth, kissing her in a way they'd not kissed in over a week. Their mouths opened to receive the other, their hands grasped the other, and before long, their breathing had quickened. Ruth pressed her fingers into his back, massaging his muscles, her fingers working their way down until they reached the top of his jeans. Releasing his shirt from his jeans, she slipped her hands inside them and inside his underpants until she could feel the gentle mound of his buttocks. She dug her fingers into the flesh of his buttocks, grasping then releasing, grasping then releasing, finally pulling him hard against her. His breathing became moaning, and then he groaned.

"Couch or bed?" Harry managed to blurt out.

"Mmm - couch."

Somehow they made it to the couch without falling and hurting themselves. Just as the first time they'd made love on the couch, they were still half-clothed when they sank on to the settee, only this time Ruth lay against the cushions, while Harry arranged himself above her. Just as the first time, they were ready to couple as soon as they settled on the couch. There was no time for slow and languid. There was no time for words. Foreplay was over. Their instincts pushed them to join their bodies as one, despite them both still wearing shirts, and Harry's jeans still bunched around one of his ankles. Ruth's shirt was open down the front, while underneath she still wore her bra. The rest of their clothes were strewn on the floor from the kitchen table to the couch, a random artwork created from their love and longing. They came quickly and loudly. Then they were quiet. It took some time before their breathing settled enough for them to manage speech.

"I'm relieved we have no close neighbours," Ruth said after a while.

"Why is that?"

"They'd probably have called the cops, thinking we're having some kind of domestic violence scene."

"Oh, I don't think so," Harry said as he kissed the top of her head. "The noises we make are rather easy to identify."

They nestled next to one another on the couch, and Harry arranged the blanket over them for warmth.

Ruth smiled and then looked at him.

"Thank you for not suggesting the table as an option."

He chuckled quietly. "The last time I did it on a table, it collapsed beneath us. We were young, though, so it didn't matter much. We just laughed ourselves silly and kept going."

This was the first time either of them had mentioned details of earlier sexual encounters. Ruth was temporarily taken by surprise. She _really_ wanted to ask who his partner had been, just as much as she didn't want to know anything at all about this woman, whoever she may have been. Of course she recognised that a man like Harry must have had countless sexual partners throughout his life.

"It was Jane," he said quietly, like he could read her thoughts. "We were newly married and were renting a furnished flat and some of the furniture was dodgy. And no, I don't long for those days. I have you. What more could I possibly want?"

Ruth then recognised that if she was encouraging honesty and transparency in their relationship, then she'd have to be able to accept that at times snippets of such information were likely to leak out.

Later they walked into the village to buy supplies – for the animals as well as themselves. Fidget had been allowed out of the cottage, and was happy to explore the garden, but would venture no further. Scarlett trotted beside them as they walked, enjoying the quiet of the countryside after the noise of London. Mostly their walks were accompanied by their silence, as they allowed the sounds of the natural world around them to provide the measure, the cadence to accompany their footsteps. They had reached a place of immeasurable peace in their togetherness.

While in the village Ruth bought a handful of postcards. Now she felt safe in the world, and in this country, there were a number of people with whom she wished to share her joy.

That night after dinner, rather than retire early to sleep, they sat on the couch, with only a lamp and the gas fire for lighting. They sat close together, Harry's arm around her shoulders. Since their wild coupling on the couch earlier in the day, words had seemed inadequate to communicate what they thought and felt.

Harry suddenly took a deep breath and broke the silence.

"I've been thinking about something." He waited for a response from Ruth, but receiving none, he continued. "There are three things which require a decision on our part. There's no hurry of course, but we have to start thinking about this. The first thing is housing. Where do we want to live? I like living here, and have no desire to return to London to live. I've been thinking I should sell my house."

"Perhaps you should wait a while before taking such drastic action," Ruth replied.

"Drastic action? I've flushed out terrorist cells, taken bullets to my body, and sent my agents out to die. That day I met Lucas on the roof of that building I expected I would die too. I think I can manage to sell my house and not regret it."

Ruth knew she'd asked for that!

"So where would you like to live?" she asked.

"Anywhere you are. A tent by the roadside would do me, so long as you were there too."

"I love you too, Harry, but I'm not sure about a tent by the roadside. And the other two things?"

"They kind of go together. I think we should we get married, and we perhaps need to discuss whether we should have children."


	14. Chapter 14

Ruth sat within the circle of Harry's arm and said nothing. He certainly was a man of hidden qualities, the most recent being his ability to stun her into silence.

"It's OK with me if you don't want to get married. So long as we're together, marriage isn't necessary, really."

"I know you want to marry me, Harry. You said so before – the day of Ros's funeral. But you have never actually _asked_ me. Will you please just ask?"

"I asked you after Ros's funeral -"

"Harry, you gave an order. Your words were: _Marry me, Ruth_."

"Did I? I meant it as an implied question. Is that why you said no?"

"No, not really. I just felt there were too many complications in our relationship then, too many things left unsaid, and too many ambiguities, too many secrets, too many deaths. The deaths, Harry. How could we have possibly considered marriage when so many of our friends were dying? To have done so seemed profane. Things are clearer now."

Ruth waited. Perhaps he was hurt or offended, and if he was, then he'd better get over it.

Harry turned a little, took his arm from around her shoulders, and took her hand in both of his.

"Ruth. Will you do me the honour of being my wife? Officially, that is, because I consider you to already be my wife. I think it's time we formalise our relationship, just in case you decide to change your mind about us, and run away again."

Ruth laughed lightly. It wasn't the most romantic of proposals, but it was Harry's proposal, and that was all that mattered.

"_Come live with me and be my love_

_And we will all the pleasures prove._..." Ruth quietly quoted Christopher Marlowe. She wasn't showing off. She felt that Marlowe matched the occasion. The small fact that he'd lived in 16th century England seemed like a minor detail.

"I could never have come up with the right quote, Ruth," Harry said. "Maybe I should have left the proposing to you."

"Of course I'll marry you, Harry. I consider it an honour that you have at last asked me."

Still holding her hand in both his hands, he leaned in to her and kissed her chastely.

"There, that's us engaged," he said quietly.

He then rose quickly and walked to the kitchen. Ruth heard him opening and closing drawers. After a minute or two he returned to the sitting room with both his hands behind his back.

"Close your eyes," he said, a smile in his voice.

Ruth closed her eyes.

She felt him near her, the heat of him radiating from his body. He took her left hand in one of his. She then felt him tie something around the ring finger on her hand.

"Open your eyes," he said.

On her ring finger Harry had tied a length of string – the kind once used to tie up brown paper parcels. Threaded through the string – in place of a gemstone – was a small orange bead which, along with the other beads from a broken necklace (possibly belonging to Justine), had been thrown in the drawer with all the other bits and pieces.

"Now it's official," Harry said, kissing her lightly on the lips, then putting his lips to the `ring' on her finger.

He was a man full of surprises. Harry Pearce, man of action, former chief of MI-5, Knight of the Realm, protector of Queen and country, was kneeling by her side, wearing the widest of smiles because he had presented her with a home-made symbol of their betrothal. Total cost? £0

"I'll buy you a proper ring when next we go to London."

"Oh, no you won't, Harry. I want this one."

And she meant it.

Soon after they became `engaged' they retired to bed.

While nestling together under the duvet, the curtains pulled back to allow the moonlight to bathe them, they talked of marriage and what they expected from it.

"It won't change us, will it Harry?"

"I doubt it."

"You do realise you'll be marrying Eva Carlson. I'll have to use my legal name."

"That's fine with me, so long as you know that I'll be expecting to spend the remainder of my life with Ruth Evershed."

"Harry, that is one of the most beautiful things you've ever said!"

"Even better than my proposal?"

"Infinitely so."

He turned towards her and kissed her softly and slowly. Her hands sought his chest, and she began slowly to undo the buttons of his pyjama top, running the tips of her fingers over his bare chest until she reached a nipple. She flicked his nipple with her fingernail. Harry, taking his lips from hers, pushed her hand away.

"Not until after we're married, Ruth. You know it's wrong."

Her laughter broke the moment, sending them both back on to their respective pillows, each overcome by waves of uncontrollable giggling. They laughed until tears rolled down their cheeks. For Ruth and Harry, this was a release easily as necessary as sex. They lay side by side in a state of exhausted pleasure, both still smiling.

"Harry, you can't believe how much like my mother you sounded when you said that."

"Glad to be of service."

And after a while -

"Harry -"

"Mm?"

"There was a third thing you mentioned."

"I thought you were maybe avoiding talking about it."

"No, I think it's best we do...talk about it, not avoid it."

"I'm happy to have children with you if that's what you want, Ruth. I won't deny you that just because I've had a family."

"That's just it. I'm not even sure that I can. Statistically, I'm already too old."

"Bugger the statistics!"

"I tried to get pregnant with a steady boyfriend back in my early thirties, and nothing happened."

"Maybe you were not compatible genetically – it happens."

"Maybe."  
Ruth wasn't sure how she felt about having children. Were she to conceive now, she'd be almost 66 when the child reached 21, and Harry would be 81. Put like that, the idea seemed fanciful and self indulgent, even selfish.

"It's not as though you're Rupert Murdoch, Harry."

"I should bloody well hope not! What brought that on?"

"He had his last two children while in his 70's. I was just thinking how old we'd both be when a child we'd created this month turned 21. It's hardly fair on the child, and it's not fair on you."

"I'm happy with whatever you want, Ruth. I've hardly been a model father."

"Let's just deal with what we can manage first – a house, a wedding. Perhaps that will be enough for us."

"I already have enough right at this moment, Ruth. Anything more than what we have now is a level of abundance I'd never imagined would be mine."

They slipped into sleep, their betrothal blessed by the moon, the stars, and no doubt also the angels and the archangels. That night their bedroom was awash with moonlight and protected by love. The Eiffel Tower snow dome, which sat permanently on Ruth's bedside table, gleamed in the light from the moon.

_**These last 2 chapters have been my own favourites so far. They wrote themselves, and all I had to do was press the right keys in the correct order.**_

_**Around 2 chapters to go – maybe 3. I can't make this go forever, although I'd quite like to see if I could!**_


	15. Chapter 15

Ruth and Harry spent the next three weeks searching for a cottage similar to the one in which they were living.

They had driven around the villages on the Devon coast, and even over the border into Dorset, visiting estate agents and looking at cottages. Everything they'd inspected had either been too big or too small, too expensive, or in need of too many repairs; nothing had been just right. Harry was becoming irritable, while Ruth had had enough and was about to give up on the idea. While they still had a roof over their head there was no need for panic, but with summer approaching, it was likely Justine and her husband would want the cottage, even if only for a few weeks. Time was passing and they were still no closer to finding a new permanent address.

After their betrothal they had returned to London for a few days to clean out Harry's house and arrange for it to be put on the market. The estate agent had warned them that the market was `slow', but Harry didn't care – he just wanted to be rid if it.

"If I could afford to, I'd give it away." he said as they headed back to Devon along the M3.

"You still can," Ruth suggested. "I have enough money for both of us for the rest of our lives."

"Have you considered that your riches may have come from the sale of weapons to the Arabs?" Harry suggested.

"I've thought about that, too," Ruth replied. "I think that I – we – deserve a share of the wealth Pax Una created - no matter what their means - for what they put us through. I'm aware that it's dirty money, but I'm quite happy to accept it all the same."

Ruth was silent for a moment before she continued.

"I've been giving the money some thought. I have far more than I'll ever need, and even more than we need, considering you are eligible for a pension for life. I'd like to use some of the money to set up a trust – for the refugees from the countries of the Arab Spring. I have to think it through a bit, but perhaps I could fund the development of schools for their children. I think that would be a nice way of sharing the wealth of Pax Una...especially since we won't be having children ourselves."

Harry reached across the space between their seats and grasped her hand tightly and squeezed, while all the time keeping his eyes on the road ahead.

"Did you hear what I just said, Harry?"

"The schools for refugee children? Great idea. Very appropriate."

"About not having children." Ruth waited a moment before she continued. "I'm happy if you're happy with that, Harry."

Harry squeezed her hand again. "I'm more than happy, Ruth." He glanced across at her and smiled. "You and me together, we're still a family."

"Besides," added Ruth, "you're more than enough for me. Where would I find the time to look after a child? I'd probably put it down somewhere and then forget where I'd put it."

On the radio the 9th Symphony by Beethoven – the Choral Symphony - was playing. Harry thought that for this occasion, Mahler would be ideal, but if not Mahler, Beethoven ran a close second.

With even more of Harry's possessions and the rest of Ruth's books from his house spilling into the few rooms of the cottage, they had been busily finding space enough for storage. The job was tedious, sometimes arduous, but doing it together made it almost fun. They enjoyed it when their hands accidentally touched, or one of them bumped into the other. The opportunities for hugs and hand-holding were many. They had left the basic furniture in Harry's house – bed, wardrobes, cupboards, tables and lounge settee and chairs – to make the house look more `homey' to potential buyers.

"I'm happy for all my furniture to be sold with the house," Harry said. "I have no attachment to any of it. What do you think?"

"It's your stuff, Harry. Do what you need to do. I'll go along with whatever you want. I _am_ rather partial to your bed, however."

"I think we should buy a new bed. A new bed for a new beginning."

Scarlett was pushing her nose between them in an attempt to get their attention.

"She wants a walk," commented Harry.

"I'll take her while you finish up here," suggested Ruth, grabbing Scarlett's lead from the row of coat hooks on the wall beside the front door.

With that, she and Scarlett disappeared out the door.

Almost two hours later, Harry had created a semblance of order in the cottage, and thought of preparing a pot of tea for Ruth and himself. Which is when he noticed she hadn't returned from taking Scarlett for a walk.

He checked that Scarlett's lead had gone – it had – before he stepped outside. Scarlett was sitting on the path between the front door and the gate, her head cocked to one side, lead still attached. There was no sign of Ruth. Harry felt his heart begin to pump faster, and heat rising to his cheeks. This time these body reactions were from a different passion altogether. For the first time in many weeks, Harry was afraid.

He put Scarlett inside and shut the door, first checking that his house keys were still in his pocket. Then he crossed the road to the other side, searching in all directions. There was no sign of anyone. He reached the edge of the grass, where the land dipped before it reached the sea. From there he had a broader and wider view of both the beach and the grassed verge. He noticed a young couple walking towards him, but they were still some distance away. For as far as he could see in any direction, there was no sign of Ruth.

He could feel himself beginning to shake, and his tears were close to the surface. He had faced terrorist threats by the dozen each year of his working life, plus threats to his own life and those of his operatives...but nothing had prepared him for the sheer panic that he felt at that moment. When Lucas North had kidnapped Ruth his level of fear for her safety was high, but then he had a backup team to help him. Here, his only resource was himself and his ability to think and act quickly. He jogged along the grass edge, checking in all directions as he did so.

As the young couple drew level with him, he crossed the beach to talk to them.

"Have you seen a woman walking on her own? Brown hair? Big eyes? Wearing jeans and a light blue parka?"

They both shook their heads and kept walking, laughing to each other when they thought they were out of earshot.

Harry felt he had run out of options. It was over two hours since she had left with Scarlett. He had lost track of the time she'd been away, and this had been remiss of him. He walked one way down the beach, and then headed back in the direction which brought him level with the cottage. As he walked, thoughts entered his head – thoughts he could not stop.

_I can't lose her again._

_If I lose her I will never forgive myself_

_If I lose her I may as well die._

_I knew our happiness was too good to be true._

And try as he might to stop these thoughts, they just kept coming.

It then occurred to him that she may not have taken Scarlett along the beach. In his panic his mind had become narrow and quite lacking in logic. He'd discounted the possibility that she may have taken the dog into the village. He walked up the beach and over the grass to the road. His view towards the village along the narrow road was obscured by trees and shrubs on either side. He had only just decided to go back for his car, when he heard her voice.

"Scarlett! Where are you, Scarlett?"

Harry was not a young man, but he found himself running along the road towards her voice. She emerged at last, as she rounded a bend and so she was no longer obscured by the overhang of the trees by the roadside.

"Harry! Have you seen Scarlett? She ran off while I was tying my shoelace."

He stood still at last, relief that she was safe and well chasing away the panic of moments ago.

"Scarlett came home," he said, trying to keep his voice even. He stood still, taking her in with his eyes, while he caught his breath.

"You're out of condition, Harry," was all Ruth said as she reached him.

"We should have more sex, then," he quipped, his breathing still laboured.

Ruth grasped his hand and together they walked back to the cottage.

Later, they were both in the kitchen preparing their evening meal. Harry had not spoken to Ruth of his fears when he thought she'd simply vanished into thin air. His years in the security service had led him to believing that when a person goes missing, the outcome is unlikely to be a good one.

"You're quiet tonight," Ruth said, not lifting her eyes from chopping carrots and shallots. Harry was tossing the chicken pieces in a spicy breadcrumb mix.

He had not meant to mention to her how he'd reacted to her being `lost'. He was afraid to tell her, even though he knew he should. He'd been shocked at his own reaction.

"When Catherine was little," he began, choosing his words carefully, "she developed an ear infection, and within hours she was almost comatose. During the night, Jane and I had to take her to hospital emergency. The hospital staff were on the ball, and they put her on an antibiotic drip, and monitored her closely until she began to improve. She lay on the bed like a little dead thing, like something which washes up on the beach at high tide. I was so scared she'd die, and with all my so-called expertise, I couldn't do anything to help her. I panicked. Jane had to calm me down."

Ruth listened, not sure where he was going with his story. Perhaps this was another level of sharing.

Harry continued. "Today, when Scarlett came home and you were nowhere to be seen, I felt the same way I had when Catherine was sick in hospital. I felt the same way I did that day Sacha Gavrik stabbed you and you died, despite Erin saying you'd be alright. It felt worse than fear. What I felt was how powerless I really am."

Ruth dropped the knife on the counter and moved to his side. She took the chicken fillet from his fingers and dropped it in the bowl. She put her hands either side of his face and turned him towards her.

"I was just out walking, Harry. I lost track of the time. I'm sorry if that frightened you. Had I known you'd be that worried I would have hurried. I'm sorry."

Harry had no words in reply. Here he was, thinking that he would protect her and keep her safe for the rest of his life, and yet in one afternoon, she could have fallen down a well, been kidnapped by anybody at all, run down by a car, fallen off a cliff, and he would have been unable to prevent it happening.

Ruth dropped her hands from his face, but still stood close, looking up at him.

"Harry, this is post traumatic stress – from when I died...from when you thought I'd died. You don't have to keep me safe, you know. You're no longer responsible for flushing out all the bad guys and wiping them off the planet. I'm not marrying you because you're Harry Pearce from MI-5, capable of leaping tall buildings and all that. I'm marrying Harry Pearce, the human being." Ruth put a hand on Harry's chest, over his heart, the heart he had feared had broken long ago. "It's the man you are I love, not the legend. I _am_ capable of looking after myself. I'm not going to stop living my life, and neither should you. As cruel as this sounds, you're going to have to deal with it."

"I know," he replied. He felt close to tears, but he knew that this probably had more to do with the 20 months he'd lived believing her to be dead than it did to her spending too long out walking the dog. And despite what he kept telling himself, he still felt as though he'd failed her. "I'll try not to let it happen again," he added.

"Harry, it _will_ happen again, and it will happen when you least expect it. I'll get home late because I got lost on a back road, or I'll forget I was meant to meet you in town for coffee. Those things happen because life isn't always perfect. Things don't always go as planned. And because you are aware of your feelings now instead of suppressing them and being the master of the universe, you will feel panic and hurt and abandonment when you fear that I've left you again. But we'll deal with it, as we have already dealt with so much."

A phone rang, the ringtone muffled.

"That's mine," said Ruth, walking into the sitting room in search of her phone. She found it under a cushion and then answered it.

Having finished her call, Ruth walked back to the kitchen to find Harry still occupied in chicken preparation. He seemed lost in his own world, and for a moment she simply watched him unseen, her heart fully filled with love for him.

"That was Justine," Ruth said. "You'll never guess what."


	16. Chapter 16

_**Thanks for all the lovely reviews, and also some of your `predictions'! I write daily, and always have a couple of chapters up my sleeve, so I find your predictions of what will happen quite interesting & insightful.**_

_**I hope I've stayed within the T rating. Have had to use the odd euphemism in the fluffy scene in order to keep things clean. Just a whole lot of self-indulgence, really.**_

"What?" Harry replied, turning to face her.

"Justine and Richard are splitting up. He's fallen in love with a poet, a man also called Richard – how confusing would that be? - and he wants to live with him. Can you believe that? He also wants a divorce."

"Isn't that meant to be bad news? You look rather smug about it."

"That's not the real news." Ruth waited.

"Then what is?" Harry asked.

"She wants to sell this cottage, as it's in joint names. I told her we'd have it. She's asked that we make an offer."

Forgetting his shortcomings from earlier in the day, Harry closed the gap between he and Ruth and put his arms around her. His emotions were all over the place; being inside his body these last few weeks had been like taking a ride on a rollercoaster. Despite this, he was sure he'd survive, especially now he had Ruth by his side.

"Harry," Ruth mused, looking up at him, "does it make me a bad person that I'm planning to benefit from someone else's misfortune?"

Harry smiled back at her. "Look at it this way. It sounds to me like Justine is well rid of her husband, and we're doing her a favour by taking this cottage off her hands."

"So, you're fine about buying it, then?"

"Of course I am. It's perfect," he said, gazing around him. "What about the furniture?" he added.

"She said she needs the bed, but we can have the rest."

"Good," Harry replied, "because I'd like to keep the couch. We can archive it when we get too old to make good use of it."

Ruth reached up to his face and pulled his head closer to her so she could kiss him.

"I love you, Harry Pearce," she said.

Over dinner they spoke of their plans for the cottage.

"If it involves DIY, forget it," said Harry. "I'm hopeless with a hammer, and don't ever let me near a chainsaw."

"We're not deforesting Devon, Harry, just tweaking this cottage a little. A coat of paint inside would make a big difference. We can pay someone to build a conservatory out the side, just off the kitchen, where it can catch the sun and the view of the sea, and perhaps we can have the kitchen done up when everything else is done."

"But I like this kitchen." Harry said, looking around him. Some of their most precious moments had been in this dim little kitchen.

"It's austere. It needs some modern touches."

"OK, so when the London house sells we can use the money to do this place up to your liking."

"Invest your money, Harry. I have enough to make this cottage quite beautiful."

"I'm not sure how I feel about being a kept man." He smiled at her.

"You spent all those years looking after the nation. It's time you allowed someone else to look after you."

Their eyes met across the table. They were exchanging `that look' – the look lovers, secret or otherwise, recognise as the prelude to something more. It was the look which exposed their longing for each other.

"We can leave the dishes until tomorrow?" Harry suggested.

"I'm sure that will be fine," Ruth replied.

Neither moved. They were each drinking in the features of the other. Having the width of the table between them meant that in order to take things to the next step, one of them would have to make a move. Ruth felt a flush rise from her neck and up to her face. She had never felt as exposed as she did in that moment, and yet they were both fully clothed. She reached her hand across the table towards him, and he took it, caressing her palm with his thumb. Ruth had never before experienced such a sensual foreplay as this. The word `swoon' came to mind.

_Stop it, Evershed. You've read just one too many Regency novels. Elizabeth Bennett you're not!_

Harry rose from his chair and came to stand beside her. He again took her hand in his, lifted it to his lips and slowly and languorously kissed the palm, all the time holding her eyes with his own. Ruth was barely able to breathe. It was when he touched her palm with his tongue, drawing ever-widening circles with it, that she found herself moaning softly. Still holding her hand he reached for her other hand, so drawing her from the chair and close to his body. He placed each of her hands behind him, so that she rested them on his lower back. As much as she wanted to rip his shirt from his body, remove his belt with a flourish, undo his pants and push them down below his knees, she also wanted this moment to last forever, even if the suspense left her unconscious.

Harry bent his head and began to kiss her neck very, very slowly. With each kiss he left a trail with his tongue. He worked his way from just below her ear to her collarbone. She leaned back slightly to give him easier access. One hand held her shoulder, while with the other he began to slowly undo the buttons on her shirt, beginning with the one closest to her throat and ever-so-slowly working his way down. By this time his tongue was tracing circles towards her left breast. Ruth had lifted her hands from Harry's back so that she could grasp his head, massaging his scalp with her fingers. She rested her lips in his hair, while she felt him slip his tongue beneath the cup of her bra.

"I think we ought to go somewhere...more comfortable," she managed to say.

"Mmmm," was all he said in reply.

"Harry," she said with more urgency, "I don't think I could manage another session on the couch."

She let go of his head as he lifted it to look at her again. His eyes showed his longing. Quickly, he grasped her hand and together they walked up the stairs to their bedroom, with Harry leading the way. As they entered the room, without a word, he turned her to face him, and continued his exploration of her left breast, this time with his fingers, while he kissed her on the mouth in a way that had her again moaning from deep in her throat. His body had responded fully, and Ruth wondered how long he'd last before he _had_ to take this to the next stage.

No sooner had she had that thought than he quickly removed her shirt, and unhooked her bra, all the time still kissing her. She waited, eyes closed, mind empty, while he bent to kiss her just beneath her right ear, and then slowly down the length of her neck. All the while his hand teased her breast, gliding towards her nipple, then stopping just short, before moving away.

"Harry -," she began, "can we get on with this?" He laughed softly into her neck – his only reply.

Ruth slowly moved her hand down Harry's chest and belly, to his belt, and then to the front where the fabric of his trousers was strained. He grasped her hand and pulled it away. "Not yet," he said.

Eventually his mouth reached her breast, and then her nipple, which he flicked twice with his tongue, then moved away, then back again. Ruth gasped, grabbing his hair in her hands.

"Do you give up?" he asked, the laugh still in his voice.

"I give up," she breathed.

With that, Harry drew away from her, trailing his hand down her arm until he reached her hand. He led her to the bed, where he lay her down, and climbed on to the bed beside her. He began to remove his own clothing, all the time watching her closely. She was hungry for his body, but each time she reached out to touch him, he pushed her hand away. This was a different Harry from the one she had made love to previously. This man taunted her and teased her, all the time tantalising her senses, so that all she could think of was wanting even more.

He leaned over her and removed her jeans, taking his time, allowing his fingers to stray to her skin, sliding along her thighs and stomach. As he slid her jeans below her hips, his thumbs touched her inner thighs, the slightest butterfly touch. Ruth's breathing deepened. That just left her knickers. He hovered over her, holding her eyes in his. He was naked and ready for her. All that remained between them was a scrap of lacy purple fabric. He slipped his fingers beneath the lace, exploring her slowly, gently and rhythmically. Her reaction was immediate, powerful and total. She arched her back as she cried out. When she had settled, he slipped her knickers down and off her body in one swift action. He kissed her slowly and softly before entering her.

This was the time for them each to fully luxuriate in the other...seeing, feeling, tasting that which had previously slipped by them. This was not a frenzied coupling on the couch. They took their time. They made love slowly.

And it was worth it.

Much later, after they had dozed, they lay close under the duvet. _This is nirvana_, Ruth thought.

Harry's head was close to her own. "Are you addicted to me yet?" he asked quietly.

"Is that what this was all about?" Ruth replied, gazing at the face she knew and loved more than any other. "I was addicted to you long before this." And after a while, "I will never leave you again, Harry. Only death – _real_ death – can part us."

They slipped into sleep, the deep and contented sleep known only to small children and lovers.


	17. Chapter 17

_**This is a short offering...the end of this fic is imminent.**_

Next morning they were each aware of the further change in `them'.

As they tidied the kitchen after breakfast, there was less talk and more `accidental' touching...his fingers against hers as he passed her the salt; his hand pressed warmly against her back when he passed behind her as they were clearing the table; his stomach against her back when he reached for a plate in the cupboard above her; her shoulder against his chest when he leaned over her to remove the plug from the sink; his arm against her breast...just because he could.

It was as though they were still making love...a marathon session with a nine-hour break in the middle.

They had a wedding to plan, and now was as good a time as any.

They sat at the kitchen table, each with a mug of coffee.

"I want our wedding to be intimate," Harry began. "No guests, just us."

"We have to have witnesses, so we have to invite at least two people...preferably a man and a woman. A friend of yours and a friend of mine would seem logical."

Harry thought for a while. "I've been acquainted with many, but friends with few. The work we both did left little time for friendships. The only friends I had were those on the Grid. And other than you, most of them are dead."

"Malcolm's still around," Ruth observed, "and what's even better, he knows about us. He knows I'm not dead, and that we're together."

"Of course," Harry said, "Malcolm. I consider him a friend. I think he'd be offended were we not to invite him. That leaves someone for you to invite."

"There's only Justine," Ruth replied. "I haven't exactly kept up with her since being back in England, but she was a good friend to me when I was staying in Melbourne. And she helped us get together."

"Anyone else?" asked Harry.

"None," replied Ruth. "Most people I used to know believe that I'm dead. It seems easier to leave things that way. What about your family?" she added. "Do you want to invite anyone?"

"No. Our wedding is none of their business. Were Catherine in the UK I might invite her, but that's only a maybe."

"What do you think about being married in this house?" Harry suggested. "I like the idea of us getting married in the sitting room with the couch in the background."

"Oh Harry, you old romantic, you!"

"I do try to make an effort."

"That's a beautiful suggestion," Ruth added. "Perhaps we can include the couch in our wedding photos."

"Like a member of the family, you mean?"

"I don't see why not."

"So long as you don't fall in love with the couch, Ruth, like that woman with the Eiffel Tower. I'd be terribly jealous."

"As I think I've said before, Harry...you are more than enough for me. Why would I choose a couch over you?"

Ruth sat twisting her engagement `ring', although she was now on her fifth piece of string, the others having either broken, or become irretrievably undone. Harry had attended to the retying of each `ring'. She viewed this attention as one of his more surprising and endearing qualities. He surprised her almost every day. Despite his almost insisting he buy her a proper engagement ring, she had so far resisted. For her, sentiment won over flashy demonstrations of wealth any day.

In the afternoon they walked hand in hand into the village. Sometimes they'd stop for Scarlett to catch up to them, and sometimes Scarlett would be the one to stop and wait for them, as they'd pause to kiss.

"I have to kiss you now or my heart will explode," Harry had said.

"We can't have that, now, can we?" Ruth replied, stopping to receive his kiss.

The plans had been drawn, and the details were in place. They were set for their big day.


	18. Chapter 18

Eight weeks later, Ruth and Harry were married...in the sitting room of the house they now owned. Rather than taking centre stage, the couch they so treasured, for reasons known only to them, sat quietly and unobtrusively out of the way against the wall. No doubt the couch would be again rewarded with their attention many times in the future.

Ruth wore a blue dress which hugged her upper body, and fell in folds to mid calf. Harry thought she looked like she'd stepped from a 1930's movie. He wore a light-coloured linen suit, with an open necked shirt of a similar shade of blue to Ruth's dress. They made a handsome couple.

"You two look wonderful," Malcolm exclaimed when he arrived.

"Being in love suits you, Ruth," said Justine, as she breezed into the cottage without knocking, perhaps forgetting that she no longer owned the place. "And you too, Harry," she added. "You look like a different man from when I first saw you."

"I _am_ a different man," he said, gazing across the room at Ruth.

When the celebrant arrived, they got on with it. There was no point in waiting until the clock read 11:30. They had waited so long for this day, this moment, that to delay it any longer seemed cruel.

They exchanged rings – plain gold for Harry, and a wider band for Ruth, with diamonds and rubies set flush in the gold. The faced one another, holding hands, as they took their vows. Taking a quick glance at Justine, Ruth noticed the shimmer of tears in her eyes.

After the ceremony everyone hugged everyone else. Harry raised his eyebrows at Ruth when Malcolm and Justine hugged.

Then they went to the pub in the village for a celebratory lunch.

The four of them drank champagne and feasted on local fish – whiting, plaice and bass – and some chicken for any non-fish-eaters. The mood was merry.

"I ask you all to raise your glasses," announced Malcolm, "and drink a toast to the bride and groom."

"The bride and groom!" said around twenty voices, most of them belonging to the locals gathered around the bar.

"If I was any happier," whispered Ruth to Harry, "I'd be classified as having a mental illness."

He reached down and kissed her, a long and tender kiss, which was accompanied by much whistling and cheering, most of it from the patrons around the bar.

Ruth was only mildly embarrassed by the added attention. It was her wedding day after all, and attention was to be expected.

They wiled away the afternoon in the pub lounge, talking, laughing, catching up.

"I'll email you the photos when I get back home," promised Justine, "and send me a postcard or two, won't you? I haven't been to New York. You lucky things. And you'll love Paris. Paris is for lovers. Richard and I honeymooned there... but - perhaps that's not the best example I could have given you."

Rather than being depressed about her marriage breakup, Justine appeared revived.

When Justine and Malcolm exchanged phone numbers and email addresses, Ruth dug Harry in his side. "Did you see that?" she said.

"I did, and I'm amazed. Perhaps love is contagious."

Before he headed back to London, Malcolm drove Harry and Ruth the short distance back home for them to spend their wedding night in their own home and their own bed.

After they'd made slow and sensual love, a celebration of their nuptials, they lay in one another's arms, their wedding rings glinting in the light reflected from the globe in the hallway outside their open door. Ruth felt like she'd developed a permanent smile. She looked up at Harry, his features so soft and gentle, compared with the man she'd worked with all those lifetimes ago. Her contentment was complete.

Harry had often dreamed of a moment such as this. He had had this particular fantasy for years...that of making love to Ruth in a large and warm bed, after which they'd lay together in their afterglow, his arm tucked around her, just as they were doing at this moment. Then his fantasy – or the possibility of it ever coming true – was ripped from him one tragic afternoon two years ago. Now that all seemed like the dream, for it had never been part of his fantasy.

Next to him lay his wife, the woman he had loved for almost ten years. He could not have written his own life script and have it turn out better than this. He had peace and contentment, he had companionship, he had meaning in his life, he had hope, he had the freedom to do as he wished, and he had the most important ingredient of all – he had love in abundance.

ooooooooooooo

_Come live with me and be my Love,_

_And we will all the pleasures prove_

_That hills and valleys, dale and field,_

_And all the craggy mountains yield._

_The shepherd swains shall dance and sing_

_For they delight each May-morning:_

_If these delights thy mind may move,_

_Then live with me and be my Love._

_Excerpts from "**The Passionate Shepherd To His Love**"_

_by Christopher Marlowe (1564 – 1593)_

oooooooooooooooooo


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